(Luxury, loyalty, and low tolerance for mediocrity)
I have a dog named Izzy—he lives a life of flair,
From Port Chester’s bagel shops to Florida’s ocean air.
He lounges like a movie star in West Palm’s golden glow,
Then dashes through the snow-packed trails of Vail, where rich folk go.
He rides in a Volkswagen EV, calm as a sage on wheels,
And in the Ferrari, window down, he lives for how it feels.
If I ever fire up the Boosted REV, he’ll jump with pure delight—
That scooter’s made for legends, and Izzy knows his right.
He watches me go golfing, tail tucked, eyes full of dreams.
If only he were human, he’d tear up those fairway greens.
He’d have a single-digit handicap, with swag the club can’t match,
And I wouldn’t be stuck golfing with my buddy’s wives—what a catch.
Izzy dreams of being human for the perks he’s missing still,
Like flying jets and heckling Trump—oh yes, he’s got the will.
If we saw Trump out golfing, Izzy’d sprint with no delay,
To bite his orange ankle or pee on shoes in bold display.
He loves when helicopters buzz—every time The Donald’s near,
Izzy barks a private anthem: “The sky is mine this year!”
If he were human, surely he would fly and fly with pride—
A pilot’s license in his paw, a bomber jacket by his side.
And sometimes when we’re driving, I see that look he throws—
Like he’s ready for a mission, or a high-speed midnight show.
He stares me down, head tilted, eyes locked and full of fight,
As if to say, “Tie your Ermenegildo Zegna around my head just right.”
So I knot the silk with honor, like a general on command—
Now Rambo Izzy rides shotgun, no seatbelt, wind and stand.
Now Izzy’s got a gripe with me—he’s sulking just a tad,
I bought myself a burial plot… but didn’t think of my lad.
He fears I’ll box him posthumous in Louis Vuitton‘s brown stash,
Tucked beside a monogrammed scarf and Rita’s eyelash trash.
But Izzy won’t go out in some influencer cliché,
Buried like a TikTok pup who brunches in L.A.
I’m thinking Greenwich style, a Hermès orange flare,
A box that screams, “This dog was loved—and knew how to declare.”
Or maybe something louder: Versace fur-lined chrome,
A tomb fit for a king who barked and made the world his home.
Because if a dog could strut with class and charm and savage sass,
It’s Izzy in the front seat, leaving everyone in the grass.
So here’s to Izzy, furry friend with dreams both big and brash,
With high-end tastes and killer drives and barking full of flash.
If he were human, life would bloom with laughter, golf, and flight,
But since he’s canine, he just waits for wheels to roll each night.
And when the world gets quiet and the lights begin to dim,
He curls beside me, plotting schemes—me and my dog, just him.