A recent news story about a painting dog was an enormous success if its primary mission was to fail to impress me.  I’ve seen a chicken play piano, a chimp use sign language, and a horse count.  Heck, one weekend in the early ‘70’s I’m pretty sure I saw one doing algebra.   So, Fido clawing through some glorified carbon paper wasn’t the highlight of my week.

What did get my attention was when the reporter said the dog “had the soul of an artist”, and I immediately thought…

“Which one?”

What artist might have such little regard for their immortal soul that they would be so careless as to let it fall into the paws of a terrier mix?

The canvas obviously lacked the emotional depth of Van Gogh, or Dalí’s searing imagination.  Little more than colorful scratches, drunkenly strewn across the work, reflecting a torment that is shared by countless artists, I still felt strongly that a particular spirit was at work here.

It had to be Jackson Pollock.

But, how is such a transaction completed?  Did Jackson part with his soul willingly?  Sell it?  Lease it for a limited time?  Or, did the dog steal it from some ethereal closet where Pollock was allowing it to hang in order to take the wrinkles out?

I’m guessing it was a simple trade, soul for soul, when the ghost of the artist was in too weakened of a state to comprehend the ramifications, or even remember what transpired.

I suppose that’s beside the point, now.  What’s done is done.  The dog is now famous; and somewhere back east, in a ramshackle old barn, resides an inebriated spectre, stumbling and confused, squinting at the floorboards, if such a thing is possible, wondering where in the world he left his spiritual gyroscope.

And all he remembers is that he used to like to have his belly rubbed.

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