April was a quiet unassuming dog. She stayed in the background. She was number six to come to my house. The first time she pushed her nose through the mass of dogs by my side, I held her face, looked deep into those dark eyes of hers and whispered, April, I hardly know you. Who is this sweet dog that was my last rescue dog, coming to live with me the first week of January? I wanted her to feel special, so I started calling her April In Paris. She comes to that name. I sing her favorite song, April In Paris to her.
I never knew the charm of spring
I never met it face to face
I never knew my heart could sing
I never missed a warm embrace
Til April In Paris
Whom can I run to
What have you done to my heart?
Easter Sunday I placed a hat on her, a simple gesture, for a photo of her for my blog, Confessions Of The Unfaithful Widow. That vintage hat sitting so jauntily on her head, a pink silk rose off to the side. I saw the change in her. Or perhaps I saw her for the first time. She was glamourous. She looked at me with wise eyes and I knew she had a story to share. She asked for her own blog. How could I refuse? She keeps a diary, not of her life at home, but of her dreams of visiting Paris. A city full of glamour that matches her own. A quiet dog that once lived in a pen full of other street dogs lives in the city of lights, Paris, in her sleeping hours. Her diary entries follow her dreams.
clip art from the web
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