I look away. work. pro-gress. become engrossed. as does she. what is mine is her's. pneumatic lubricant, aggie sippy cup, boots, bras, panties, coverlets, steak, tubes, plates, apples, wet paint, lawn cushions, stuffed animals, pillows, electric cords, hoses, and today, string. I suppose i could beat her. muzzle her. NOT. i mean we do have a little talk with each alteration of which i am aware. she humbly with head bowed listens. blah blah blah :) DOPTY :) blah blah blah DOPTY. humble tail wag. belly up. rub my tummy please. see how cute i am. rub. i then just take the residual remains. securing them as i am able. it is the nature of the partnership. it is the nature of a not yet one year old who needs to help me and love on MY stuff and just flat out needs to burn gnawing energy. the bulk of which results in highly formal works based on surface texture, minimal color, and repetition and rhythm. she's thrown conceptualism to the wind and embraces a formal activism. bad dog. good dog. oh dang. she's just my Dopty-Dopt.
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