Harry B. Sanderford
Billy's struggling artist days ended the day he came up with the gimmick of painting his rottweiller Rufus in a variety of humanesque, if humiliating poses.
Billy's struggling artist days ended the day he came up with the gimmick of painting his rottweiller Rufus in a variety of humanesque, if humiliating poses.
Wrapped in a shawl rocking Whistler's Mother style, fly fishing in waders and a hooky hat, or overalled and pitch-forking American Gothic with Francine the french poodle who lives next door, Rufus found ironic abstraction tedious .
"Yo Bro, don't make me go all anthropomorphic on your ass up in here," Rufus snarled.
Billy Blake looked up from his easel, "You feelin' froggy leap Motherfucker, but first stop scratchin' at them fleas and hold that mug how I showed you."
"Dawg, I tole you I aint got no mutherfuckin' thumbs an' I'm scratchin' at this wooly ass sweater you makin' me wear, aint even my color."
"You're spillin' beer all over is what you're doing. Just hold it best you can, I'm almost done." And with a few more strokes he was, another Mastercard masterpiece for the mongrel masses. No offense Dog.
