By the flickering light of the candelabra, the lady of the house poses, stock-still and in her midday formal wear. It is not until the painting session ends, that she takes a moment to lightly smooth the billowy fabric of the dress, look down upon its ornate pattern work and sigh, “I hope you’ve been kind with my figure, as I’m not the lithe pup I once was. Oh, how I do love that bologna.”

People who paint pet portraits must be inherently kind. Mike S. Young needs to be my buddy. Stat. Or perhaps just render haunting likenesses of my future pups.