Acrylic on canvas 12″ X 12″ (y. 2013)

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I lived with this dog for a few years. His name was Clyde. He was not my dog though. I’m not really sure that Clyde belonged “to” anyone. The person Clyde lived with told the story of Clyde. It went something like, “I came home from work and he was just here in my yard”…”I always lock the gates for Phoebe (his “other” dog) so, he either jumped in or someone put him here”…”I can’t keep him”…”I have a dog”…”I think he’s a pit-bull”… A few days after his arrival, I had the opportunity to meet him.

He was beautiful, dignified, always polite. I remember my dog, Mel, teaching Clyde how to play with a ball – no human required 🙂 I remember I quietly watched from the kitchen doorway. Watching and welling up with tears. He was like a little kid – beautiful – a natural athlete – full of joy in a new moment with a new skill.

I loved this guy.

❤ tree stories


“I TOUCH TREES, as others might stroke the fenders of automobiles or finger silk fabrics or fondle cats. Trees do not purr, do not flatter, do not inspire a craving for ownership or power. They stand their ground, immune to merely human urges. Saplings yield under the weight of a hand and then spring back when the hand lifts away, but mature trees accept one’s touch without so much as a shiver. While I am drawn to all ages and kinds, from maple sprouts barely tall enough to hold their leaves off the ground to towering sequoias with their crowns wreathed in fog, I am especially drawn to the ancient, battered ones, the survivors.”