Monday, May 25, 2009
Pegasus, my last remaining wolfdog, died of lymphoma recently. I knew there was nothing we could do. I'd felt the hard lumps under his jaws, but he seemed so healthy otherwise that it came as a bit of a surprise when, after a few months, he stopped eating and drinking. In the midst of a heavy spring blizzard, we said goodbye. He was ten and a half years old.
One of the things that helped ease the pain was the routine of feeding the other dogs. I'd go out to the shed as usual, pretending that he was still there with them.
Routine sometimes has a bad reputation among painters, but it's definitely part of the process. The sun comes up every morning, we breathe in, we breathe out. Part of our purpose is to avoid stereotypes, but habit can be like a tuning fork, reminding us to pay attention. Is it possible to make a habit of freshness, originality? Look at those colors, the depth, the softness. It won't always be there like it is now.