Sometime ago I discovered a painting titled, "Pintos" that absolutely enchanted me. The painting itself is much more vibrant than what you see on a monitor, and I spent a good while trying to figure out just how many horses there were in that painted scene.
The artist is named Bev Doolittle, and she has painted several more works in this 'camouflage' style.
Knowing of my fondness for foxes and my liking for Ms. Doolittle's work, Mom gave me a framed print of a Doolittle painting called "Woodland Encounter" which I hung on the wall behind my desk just this morning.
Little while after I get the picture hung just right, a detective leans around the corner and hands me a affidavit to check. I'm reading through it, she's fidgeting, and suddenly she freezes and blurts, "Holy crap, there's an Indian in that painting!"
Next thing I know she's standing with her nose practically pressed against the glass, making "Oh, wow!" noises.
Which is all well and good -- but I'm sitting in a chair, in a small office, tucked up against a desk, and she's Right. Behind. Me.
Now, I realize that with most normal and stable folks this isn't a big deal.
It drives me nuts.
In the most cordial, charming and polite way I can muster, I chuck her out of the office, take a deep, calming breath and head for the tea-pot.
There's four of 'em in my office when I get back. One pour of half-and-half, one pour of tea, couple of sugar cubes -- and my office is full of investigator-types.
I am sipping my now-cool tea, when I am informed that my presence is requested by a judge.
Off I go -- judge isn't in the office. I check the court-room -- no judge. Court reporter says, perkily, "The judge went on break."
Back to my office. I hadn't realized my office was a judicial break room, cause there's two of 'em in there. Behind my desk. Tracing outlines on my picture.
I enquire if my presence was still desired -- it is. And to fix the minor catastrophe requires that I access my computer. Which is on my desk.
By the time I get the problem solved, the judges are still entranced by the picture and I'm audibly grinding my teeth. And then at least one of the judges had to go tell some attorneys about the "really neat painting" over in 'Dog's office.
Six hours of having people breathing the air behind my desk along with me, and I'm surprised the bail-bond agent didn't spontaneously combust when he stuck his head around the door to ask me a stupid question.
I'm getting some new hangers, and tomorrow that picture is going on the other wall.