A DOG IS BORN

Nina was born  next to Chez Camille, the hot spouse pour la nuit or singles' bar on rue Ravignon in Montmartre. It was puppy love. Warren, an eight-month old eager beagle-terrier had swooned Lola a ten month old Pyrenees-bearded collie unknown to Céleste their mistress,  who owned yet another dog, three cats, and a pet mouse. I had been six months without Ruby. The stars guided me to her store-front studio when I heard the news.

 I got Waren's and Lola's  approval - lick- lick...lick-lick-lick. Four weeks later, Céleste called to tell me that Lola had run out of milk. Celeste had run out of patience. It was time. With a mop in one hand, she bent down and handed me Nina Suprema. I took her down the street to The Café Saint Jean and presented her to my friends. Then we went home and I explained what a newspaper is for. She understood. She ate and drank, then sank into her new bed. There was a little weeping so I slept downstairs next to her bed the first night.  

Nina became the cherie of the neighborhood.

 Tourists loved her also. The name, "Nina" works in almost every language. So when I heard, "Bella carni." It was surfice to say, "Nina."

I'd hear back, "O Nina. Bella carni."

The Japanese would cry out, "Benji, Benji." Thousands took photos.

With some regret, I taught Nina to fetch.  A thousand and one tennis balls later, she learned how to pitch. A south paw. And she was good. 

Nina leapt in the air when Olivia de Havilland came to visit my studio,  and gave her a kiss without touching her pretty dress. 

"This dog is made for the cinema." Miss de Haviland announced.

"No." I told her.

She was made for me.