I’ve always adored the arts. Could have had a career in the theater if casting directors were smart enough to recognize real talent. They go for the fluffy types, I guess. Maybe I needed an agent.
Instead I chose a life out of the spotlight – studio dog to a would-be artist. I start the day with a good thump on the side of the bed to get her up and moving. If that doesn’t work I just breath in her face. Like magic her eyes open.
Then I click into personal trainer mode. If I didn’t get her out the door, pounding the pavement, she’d sit with breakfast and the paper until lunch.
Once she’s showered and dressed in her grubbies, it’s up the steps to the studio. “Studio” is a pretentious word for a spare bedroom with art supplies and stacks of paintings. It has my favorite window where I can patrol the street from higher ground. Yeh, I do some guard duty just to keep up my skills.
Basically I just lay up against the office chair or under the table. She’s got an eclectic taste in music and podcasts. I usually doze. If she gets really involved with the paint I can sneak out for a drink or some kibble.
I keep my comments to myself. I know where my chow comes from and critiquing her efforts does not work to my advantage. Some people think dogs are color blind. Still I know a tint from a shade. I’d tell her it’s all about the values, but my vocabulary is limited. She’s learning.
I’m definitely not going to be like the farm dog who told her that her plein air painting stunk. Well, he didn’t actually tell her, he just left a little token of his disdain right in front of the easel.
It’s a good life as a studio dog. If I worked any harder she’d have to pay me.