This is from my brother Michael Beard, and I LOVE it! You can follow him on twitter @virgovibes.
The gallery owner was a slightly stout woman with a friendly disposition. Although in the business to make money, she made a few exceptions.
Young artists, struggling for exposure, brutally rebuffed elsewhere, were given a featured spot, one at a time, once a month, for publicity.
One such artist painted the misery of dying animals in hues of grey, green, and blue. Mainly dogs and cats yowling in relentless misfortune.
The gallery owner, being of a sweet nature, flinched at the subject matter, but nevertheless tried to find pleasure in its weighty palate.
For a whole month she stared at the paintings on the distinguished wall, and every day tried to find the reverse, abstract meaning in them.
But try as she might, all the paintings ever proved to be were heart-breaking. She could find no pleasure in the suffering of small animals.
As she found herself one rainy day at the front door of the space, sipping tea, a stray cat meandered up and presented itself and stretched.
"Hello, friend," she said. The cat said nothing, but rubbed itself against her leg, vibrating in pleasure. She reached down for to touch it.
As she felt it's fur, slightly marred by street grease, she thought of the cruelty she'd been exposed to by the young, insensitive painting.
She stood up straight, and without a second thought, kicked the poor animal as hard as she could. At long last she felt release. And smiled.
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