It’s late June. A warm and soft evening in Manhattan.
A party of three is having a nice French dinner out. On the sidewalk next to them is their dog, a small mountain of caramel-colored hair who has splayed herself grandly over the concrete.
She watches the party of three talk, gesture, eat. She watches the passersby as they pass by the nice French restaurant. She watches the warm and soft evening in Manhattan.
Then, as if it’s all too much good and glory to take in, she rolls herself belly-up. She throws her paws out. And she lies delighted, outstretched on the sidewalk.
It’s not yet the dog days of summer, but this dog is making it her day.
The party of three stops, smiles. Some passersby smile as they pass by. If the whole evening could smile its warm and soft smile, it probably would, too.
How could you not at this shameless celebration of nothing more than being alive on an evening in late June?