A Good Ending to a Dog's Tale

It takes creativity and persistence to find a new home for an older dog. . .Dog has found a new home with a good person who knows her and loves her, and who knows and loves her artist friend. 

A Dog Named "Dog"

Shirley and Dog

About ten years ago, Shirley lived in the "Four Corners" where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah are joined.  The Four Corner's are said to be a spiritual place and are not far from the Native American ruins at Mesa Verde.  I visited Shirley while she was living there, and aside from touring Native American ruins, and hiking with the Ute Mountain Ute's, and seeing the museum in Blanding, Utah which featured her work, I became acquainted with a dog.

It wasn't difficult to remember the animal's name for the dog was named "Dog." 

"Dog!," Shirley would yell to the shaggy creature who romped in the back yard of Shirley's little white home.  "Dog, it's time for din-ah!"

And, Dog would come bounding up to the back door, ready for her meal of kibbles.

Dog accompanied Shirley on her near daily sojourns to the Blue Mountains, or to "Indian Rock" where hieroglyphics were painted many moons ago by ancient peoples, or to a mountain peak adorned with cottonwood trees.  Together, they traveled in an old van, replete with a water dish for Dog, and an old thermos filled with coffee for Shirley.  An old grocery bag would be filled with a sandwich, apple, an old bone for Dog, and sundry items to keep them sustained throughout the day.  And, Dog would lay in the shade while Shirley took out her canvas, and her palette, and began to paint, beginning with a wash of burnt umber, and later fleshing out the details with painstaking patience, even to the tiny bird that sat upon a branch of a tree. . .

Now, 83-years old, Shirley can no longer care for Dog.  She is struggling to care for herself, and finds even getting out of her bed takes considerable energy.  Dog watches Shirley from the corner of her bedroom, knowing that her best friend is considerably ill; Dog feels helpless.  A cold nose presented and pressed into Shirley's old hand, Dog wants Shirley to know that she is there watching over her, and protecting her as best as Dog can.

The Artist and her Van

But, now it is time for Shirley to part with Dog, and with great reluctance.  Rescued by Shirley ten years ago, Dog had been hit by a car, her shoulder and leg damaged; Dog was left with a permanent limp.  But this disability has not dampened Dog's spirits, nor affected her keen intelligence, or love of people. Dog is still spry, and still likes to run after a scent. 

An Australian Shepherd mix, Dog is medium sized, in good health, and well traveled.  She enjoys daily walks, if not sojourns throughout the country side, and she is a people-lover.  An older dog, Dog is still learning new tricks.

Please contact me by email if you are interested in providing a new home for "Dog."  Dog has requested a bath and a trim, a little bit of primping before sitting for her portrait.  The photo of Shirley dates back to 2009 on a summer day. . .very thin. . .she had put away the canvas and brushes for a little while.

Shirley Erickson reflects

Intense sunlight was streaming through the lace curtains of the east window directly into my eyes.  I was in my crib, wearing a blue flannel outfit with feet.  I managed to roll over onto my stomach, get my knees pulled up and hands outstretched.  Pinching the sheet with my hands, I inched my way toward the head of the crib.

Between the crib rails, I saw a beautiful woman sleeping, her thick auburn hair rumpled.  Next to her, a handsome man, his dark hair cut back from his forehead.  I said to myself, "My mother and my father and aren't they beautiful!" 

I was hungry but I didn't want to awaken them.  I kept clutching the sheet and pushing with my knees until I reached the head of the crib where I grasped the sheet, pulling it back to reveal the mattress.  On a background, a pink pig pranced, a ribbon on her tail and pink rueshing around her throat.  And, there was a horse!  He was blue with white circular dapples...between his ears was a large feather boa. The horse wore a fancy bridle  He was trotting.  Standing on his croup was a beautiful girl dressed as a ballerina.  She was fairy-like, balanced delicately on the trotting horse.  I did my first drawing, tracing the outlines of the horse, the girl, and the pig with my baby fingers.  I knew, then, that I wanted to be a painter, and that horses would always be an important part of my life.  My thinking was that of an adult.

I don't remember previous awareness or verbalization of my thoughts, but a few months later, sitting in a high chair, being spoon fed by my mother, I looked at the people around the table.  My mother, my father, O'Mama (grandmother), sister Anita, brother, Norbert, the hired girl and a guest, an army major on leave from Australia.  The major had just told a joke.  Everyone was laughing, except for me.  The language was too advanced for me.  I decided I would memorize every word, store them away until a later time when I could pull them out of the mental file and finally comprehend.  That became a lifelong habit of memorizing conversations which, years later, could be repeated verbatim...

January 24, 2011 (written by Shirley D. Erickson)

Prelude: Francesca, in the movie, "The Bridges of Madison County," tells her children in a letter they found in her hope chest after her death, that when one gets older, one simply wants to be known, known for who they really are. The following is an excerpt, written by Shirley Erickson at age 83, which tells her story from her own words. Now, suffering from advanced stages of emphysema, Shirley is very ill. She wants to be known for her work as an artist, and for who she really is.

Shirley Erickson writes:

Fast forward to late August 1930. I was three months shy of my fourth birthday. I didn't know why (until many years later)I felt abandoned. No one talked about my mother's having delivered a beautiful baby boy who looked at his mother, smiled, and then died. My mother's grief was profound. She was barely capable of functioning. Every morning she dressed me, fed me breakfast, and put me outside to play in the sand pile. No one ever checked on me. After a few weeks, I began walking to school to be with my sister, Anita, and brother, Norbert. I was barefoot and gritty from sand. The teacher of the one-room schoolhouse let me in and sent me home at recess, escorted. I met the teacher (who was my godmother) everyday, until the teacher visited my parents, suggesting that they allow me to enroll in first grade. I was the baby of the class. Everyone protected me. And, I loved being there.

One of our forth grade classes was "language;" we were learning about adverbs, pronouns, etc., but one day this teacher showed us a large full-color poster of "The Horse Fair," painted by Rosa Bonheur. I was astounded. Beautiful horses and painted by a woman! We were told that the painting was at the Metropolitan Museum in New York City. hat day, I knew that I would definitely be a painter. And, I became a painter, a horse breeder, and a lifelong fan of Rosa Bonheur.

Many years later, my husband (Don) and I were in New York City. We went to the Metropolitan specifically to see "The Horse Fair." I sat on a bench and studied Rosa's work. She was a master!

About two weeks later, a newscaster announced that there had been a fire at the Metropolitan Museum, and that "The Horse Fair" had been destroyed. Now, years later, a report stated that efforts are being made to restore the painting. I hope that will happen.

On The River

When I was young, my family would drive to my grandparent’s house on the “River.” The “River,” as we had come to call it, had a family history behind it. My great-grandfather built electric power dams. He had used dynamite to alter the flow of the river upstream, leaving underbrush of trees and bushes which would scrape the bottom of our “row boat” and, sometimes make it treacherous to maneuver.

Arnold, my mother's father, had asked my father, Don Erickson, an architect, to design their River home for him and for Bernice, my grandmother. My father designed a structure which began with a garage and transitioned it into a type of A-frame with redwood siding. Dad placed the children’s room in a loft with windows that looked into the living room below. As children, we used to sneak up to the windows and watch the adults in conversation, and sometimes catch a glimpse of a television show.

Suffice it to say, the home stood out from the farmhouses nearby and across the River; the River home was perched on a hill above the river itself, with two piers where we fished with bamboo poles and worms. Grandma would fry the fish that we caught for breakfast, and we would go out again, on the river to catch snapping turtles and then let them go.

Our father taught us how to skip a stone on that river. We have thrown a pebble into the river and are watching the water around it ripple in concentric circles, casting out for like souls, lovers of beauty and appreciators of art.

Pencil drawing, “The Boat that Si Wilcox Made,” by Shirley D. Erickson, depicting a boat on the White River, Wautoma, Wisconsin
As pictured in gallery flyer, “Seven Variations, June 7, 1964
Owned by Judge Wilcox, Wautoma, Wisconsin

Timberdoodle

Number of prints pulled: 400

Ruffed Grouse:

Number of prints pulled: 750