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The Sentinel

The Sentinel

    I'm no artist... as my dear wife often reminds me.  It is she who marvels at colors and shapes in settings mundane and spectacular.  I'm the verbal guy, the kindergartener who, unlike Joe Bochicchio the painter of big birds, used my coloring paper to print words.  Barbara's passion are museums of fine arts; mine are ballparks.  She catalogues family artifacts; I do crossword puzzles. 

    But every now and then a light surprises.  I see something that demands it be photographed or otherwise memorialized in line or words.  So it was Friday morning in our cabin in Vermont.  See for yourself:

    I've entitled it The Sentinel.  Tappy bichon perches on the sofa in the main room of our Vermont cabin, the better to look through the front window to warn us of the approach of a mailman or a moose. 

    What appeals to me about the photo, other than that it features a favorite subject of mine, is the lighting and even the texture of the colored plastic and cloth, how Tappy is silhouetted, almost as if she were meant to stand erect.  The pom-pom of hair on her curled-up tail suggests a regal bearing which even Goya couldn't resist. 

    Tappy never plays ball the way Sadie Mutt did.  Tappy would eat table scraps until she exploded. But, like Sadie, she welcomes me and Grammy when we return home with great exuberance, in stark contrast with a couple of fifteen year olds who hardly nod in our direction after a day apart. 

    Here's a salute to man's best friend... woman's too. 

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