My Father, My Art

Sometime in my early teens, I did a pencil drawing of our first dog Duke, whom my father loved.  Duke was a boxer--ears and tail cropped in the fashion of the day. The story is that, when we were little, he let us ride on his back.

My father was living with his second wife and four stepchildren.  When I gave him the picture of Duke, he laughed: “I didn’t even know you could draw.”

I felt ashamed. How stupid of me to want praise and gratitude. Instead he told me what I already knew: He didn’t see me. He didn’t know me.