Oil on canvas, 12x12, $350
This dog was waiting outside of town hall in Montville, Conn., a place I find myself often, these days.
He (I think it was a he?) was the size of a giant schnauzer, but was marked like an airdale. He was hanging his gigantic head out the window of a tiny, rust-ravaged little pickup. He looked fierce at first, but a smile broke on his face when I approached, and he practically begged me to pet him. Happy as he was to see me, though, his clear mission was to wait for the one he loved.
Every time the door opened, his huge head turned toward it, hope in his big eyes. Every time it was not his human, he turned back to me, disappointed. I was a poor second, but I would do for a while.
Isn't this how we all are? We spend our lives waiting just to be with the one we love. We wait to find him or her, and then we wait to commit, and then, committed, we wait for him to catch up or to turn around and beckon. We wait with as much hope as this guy, putting everything into it, knowing, finally and surely, that at last, something is true.