There is an orange piece of paper on the windowsill. It says; “Dog in Kitchen,” There is a bit of duct-tape on the top. It is designed for reuse and it looks like everything else on the farm – well worn. They used to keep the dogs in the kitchen; that is until Rufus showed up. Rufus was a very large black lab. He was a genius. He could open a can of food with his teeth. He was able to open most doors, but perhaps, his greatest trick was that he could make himself invisible. He could go totally quiet and flat in the dark place under the kitchen table. His eyes had a way of being open enough to see, but not enough to draw your attention. His patience was endless. He would wait for however long it took for people to leave. What we never saw, and what strains credulity, is how fast he must have moved when the time was right. This large lump of inertia, transformed into a dog of action. They talk about zero to sixty in one minute. That was nothing on Rufus.

When you return to the kitchen, to find the opened cans, the tatters of the cereal box, the broken plate on the floor, the cookie crumbs, a total disaster area, it would appear that he had not moved, that he had slept through the whole thing. Your mind would do a double-take; the evidence was clear, yet his innocence was palpable, it radiated from him like a warm heat. Nothing computed. That dog could mess with your mind.

“Dog in Kitchen,” was written for other dogs but it might have become his epitaph, Rufus died from something he ate. Rufus and Obie, His brother Labrador, would scour the woods looking for carcasses. Margaret called them “the Men in Black.” Two sleek black athletes, noses down, at full run, circling the perimeter. Doing honest work, for once. Food was a fulltime job.

Working in the studio is like Rufus under that table. I need patience – trust. The people in my head will leave – their voices will stop. Opportunity will come. Lie low, Stay present. Don’t move a muscle in my mind. Neutral. Still. Be the floor board. One with the black, with the dark. A hunter waiting, invisible, alert.

Sometimes when a painting comes, it comes in like crackling across the surface of a frozen pond. It comes in fast, spreading over the canvas. It seems to come from somewhere else – a law unto itself – it has the quality of wildness. It has the force of nature. One or two movements of the brush bring it in like the patterns of falling dominoes. It is total gift – a rush. This is what will bring me back, under the table, waiting. Can I do it again? Have the gods not figured out my ruse? Will they put me out of the kitchen? Will they make a new sign? “No Dogs Allowed.”