The reason I pulled it out originally was because, in that basket, is a Pound Puppy, and we'd been talking about toys from our childhood.
There's a lot more to this picture, though, which appeared in the Telegram-Tribune many, many years ago.
I'm standing next to a painting I did. The one against my right arm, sort of stretching from neck to waist. It looks like a horse with a beard and cloven hooves and stars floating right above it? See there? Underneath that compelling portrait of a boy turned toward the artist?
I was never a good artist, but this does show that, even back then, I told stories. You see, on the ground in front of that unicorn with wings (fans of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic would call it an alicorn), there is a dead stag. Dripping from the unicorn's horn in the stag's blood. They'd fought, you see, and the unicorn won. You can see the stag's horns. In retrospect, now it looks more like a dead chicken with its feet in the air.
How old am I? Eight? Nine? Old enough that I clearly picked out my own clothes (do you see how dirty those sneakers are?) but still thought it was okay to take a stuffed animal to an art show. But my art told a story. I'm thankful now I have the words to tell those stories rather than relying on my hideous artwork. Which, by the way, has not improved in the thirty years since this art show.
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