I love dogs. In my world, there is no such beast as an ugly dog. All dogs are beautiful and a good dog is God’s gift. To paraphrase Will Rogers, I’ve never met a dog I didn’t like- until I did. I suppose it was inevitable, but it did take seven decades of meet and greets, before it happened.

When out and about, I have stopped and taken photos of dogs who have caught my fancy. Painting a dog’s portrait is both a joy and a worry; it all hinges on capturing their personality on canvas. It either sings or barks. It’s especially hard when the subject is deceased. As I paint, I think of the bond between beloved pet and human companion and hope to honor that bond.

Nikita’s Bar and Bistro, a twelve by seventy-two foot mural, of twenty two dogs tying one on, was my most challenging commission by far. Nikita, the Rottweiler-Shepard mix bartender, rules over the canine watering hole that bears her name. In the painting hanging above her, it is fitting therefore, that Nikita has replaced the human subject in Manet’s Olympia, with herself and the maid with a Chihuahua. Like all good publicans, Nikita knows all her customers by name, but some regulars prefer anonymity. My lips are sealed also, and I won’t name names of those who prefer, “a little privacy please”! Astro, the Great Dane, stands twelve foot tall and anchors one end of the lively bar. This gentle giant keeps an eye on the revelers, with his second in command, a watchful Chow Chow. These bouncers have their work cut out for them. Like their human counterparts, it’s best if what happens at Nikita’s stays at Nikita’s. There’s the over confident, older Scottie hitting on a bored French Poodle- tonight will not be his night. The Norwich Terrier on the other paw, seems to have connected with the Sheltie, while the bold Springer Spaniel seizes the night and turns the tete-a-tete, between the Husky and Dalmatian, into a menage a trois. Bad dog! The Westies, Corgi and Bulldog keep it on the down low. These ankle biters have claimed the space under the bar, all the better to take a quick nip and retreat. The sassy Shih Tzu, the exception to the rule, is right at home dancing on the bar top. For now, the Airedale and Boz the Whippet are getting along and are left to their own devices. Gabby, the mostly Beagle mongrel and Bingo the Boxer, know that ‘things go better with coke’. Poor wee Morton, who is unable to belly up to the bar, knows that a friend in need, is a friend indeed and this lucky Dachshund has found a forever friend in a helpful Saint Bernard. We’ll never know who let the dogs out, but we do know where they all went.

Mr. Bill and I are footloose gray nomads. Wherever Mr. Bill leads, I follow. We set up house and I go exploring on foot or by bicycle. While walking I have encountered friendly dogs, shy dogs, big dogs, small dogs, surfer dogs, and working dogs. Canines on the clock, have my respect and I know never to pet a service dog. After all, interruptions on the job are disruptive and downright rude.With that in mind, I did not engage with the gorgeous, but serious looking, German Shepard, one autumn afternoon. Mr. Bill and I had returned to Middletown, Connecticut and I was on my home turf or so I thought. The German Shepard thought otherwise. I was impressed to see the big dog at his mistress’s feet, immobile in a Sphinx pose, waiting patiently on the verge, for the command to cross Westfield Street. As I passed by on the sidewalk, I merely said hello and remarked, what a well behaved dog he was. With that, the Shepard leapt up snarling and snapping. It lunged, landing heavy paws on my chest. Instinctively, I raised my hands to protect my face and the dog bit, clamping down hard, trapping my left hand in its jaws. I jerked backwards, desperate to free my hand and remain upright, but I was unable to break the vice like grip. We were eyeball to eyeball, in a painful tug of war between appendage and mandible. Then the dog’s owner hauled back hard on the lease and sharp teeth raked deep grooves across the top of my hand, as I yanked it free. Dang! It hurt! I was stunned, shaken and in a bit of disbelief. Did that really just happen? It had. I had made it to seventy-one without being bit by a dog and it’s an experience, that I would have been happy to forgo. It didn’t tick any boxes for me, not a one. Still, it could have been worse. Fortunately, the weather had turned frosty and I had worn leather gloves. Whew, saved by a cold front. Time to pull up stakes!

Where was Mr. Bill during all this drama? Home Sweet Home is where. I hastened there, cradling my throbbing hand. When I walked in the door, Mr. Bill asked, “how was your walk”? Usually we play, You’ll Never Guess, but I was so embarrassed to have been bitten by a dog, that I nearly didn’t tell him. Sheepishly, I admitted to the unprovoked attack, not sparring him any of the gory details. Mr. Bill listened and calmly examined my hand-good sized hematoma and bruises but the skin was intact, so I was pronounced fine. My Warrant of Fitness was not revoked, and dinner was made that evening. However, I have learned my lesson and that is the last time, I give a dog a compliment.