big yellow dogs


A random picture I did with the only purpose to create a video tutorial explaining how to use color markers.
You can see that video right here:

I named this australian shepherd (who is a random character) at the moment while I was creating this picture, as you can hear on the video. His name is Pitagoras. Why? I don’t know, it was… completely random.

Probably this will be sold at the Anthrocon’s art gallery.

anonymous asked:

God. Stop with your sanctimonious bullshit. Get over yourself. It's a tv show. No one knows the final product. I know this comes at a shock, but you're not an expert on people's fucking nationally. You're a white teenager who has NO business speaking for others/or on others behalf.

This is how it happens: One minute, you’re just another awkward second-grader. And then your mom takes you and your brother to her friend’s house, out in the country. You get out of the car, and there’s a big yellow dog wagging his tail at you. And your mom and your brother go to ring the doorbell, and you get down on your knees in front of this friendly dog, and you’re petting him… And then, suddenly, the dog snaps his jaws. And your life as you know it… ends.
It happens so fast… You’re not even sure what happened. It feels like a very sharp pinch, and then it’s spreading, fast through your whole face. There’s blood. There’s a lot of blood. You yell for your mom, you run towards her. She turns, and when she sees you, she gasps in horror and she covers your brother’s eyes, and she screams to him, “Don’t look!”
That’s how these things happen, I guess. Anyway, that’s how it happened to me.
The dog never barked, never growled. He followed after me, still friendly and playful. Blood pouring from the holes in my face… and he’s looking at me, wagging his tail. My mother grabbed my jacket from the car, and told me to hold it tight against my face. I was crying. I was so panicked I felt like I was choking.
At the hospital, nurses were coming in, mopping up blood and asking questions and trying to establish how much of my face was still there, whether the nerve endings were alive. My face felt puffy and I was light-headed. The nurses were friendly, they wanted me to trust them. And I did. I believed them when they said that doctors would be able to fix me.
My father didn’t - he couldn’t - look directly at me. He kept staring at a space on the wall above me. He kept saying, “You’re being very brave.” I didn’t feel brave. I was still crying, but quietly. I was pressing cotton against my face, just wanting it to be over. I just wanted to go home.
And then, I was lying on a table, squinting into a bright light above me. I can’t feel the stitches, but if I look out of the corner of my right eye, I can see it, the silver needle, moving up and down. So I don’t look. They keep talking to me. Half the time I don’t know what they’re saying, the other half of the time, they’re telling me how brave I am, but that’s only because they don’t know how afraid I feel. You’re not allowed to cry or they might mess up your stitches. You can’t move at all. They keep saying, “It will all be over soon.”
They lied. I was conscious the entire time. I was awake while they sewed my face back together. What I remember most is the bright light, and the strangely disembodied voices of my parents and the doctors, trying to keep the patient calm.
When they finally let me see myself, when they gave me a mirror, I had prepared myself for a Halloween mask, for a horror movie, for a nightmare. But the blood had been cleaned away. It was just neat rows of stitches. I was actually relieved.
But then I went back to school. And then the real trauma began.


“You were six and I was seven.

I was tossing a football around in my front lawn with my best friend, my older brother, Sodapop.
My oldest brother, Darry, was sitting on the porch steps with my father, talking about something they both really liked. I could tell by their smiles.

Soda accidentally overshot the football into the neighbors yard,
so I enthusiastically shouted ‘I’ll get it!’ and ran into the front yard of the house next door, trying to show off my running to my brothers and father.

I found the football and stood up, raising the ball over my head so Soda could see I was alright over the fence.

That was when I saw you.
You were sitting on the bench on your porch with the big yellow dog across your lap.
You smiled at me and I smiled back, frozen.
I could hear Soda yelling for me to get back over there but it didn’t register until your yellow friend began barking at me.

I tried to convince myself that girls were gross for the rest of the night.


you were eleven and I was twelve.

Your parents had invited the five Curtis’ over for dinner one Friday.
My mom was delighted at the idea and told Soda and I that we had to go. Darry got out of it because he had football practice.

My mom grabbed her wrapped dish and marched her husband and two youngest sons next door.
The Curtis family was ushered into the dining room and that was when I saw you.

I recognized you as the girl in the halls, the girl who walked the same streets I walked, and the girl who sat on the bench on her porch with the yellow dog.

Your brother was Sodapop’s age, fifteen, so Soda smiled and wasn’t awkward and shy at all. Not that Sodapop would be. Soda is the friendliest person I know.

You didn’t talk the whole dinner but I watched you use your finger to trace the smooth designs on the tablecloth. It was truly enchanting and I caught myself doing it a few times.

My father asked me to pass the mashed potatoes three times before Soda shook me and pointed to the potatoes.
I wasn’t even sure what had zoned me out.
I was only twelve.


you were thirteen and I was fourteen.
It was three weeks and five days after you and your mom had showed up at my front door with a plate of “I’m sorry for your loss” cookies.
It was raining real hard and I had to make up a test I had missed so I came out of school 40 minutes late.
I was annoyed, although not surprised, that Two-Bit and Johnny had left without me.
I sighed and pulled up the hood on my sweatshirt before starting the cold, wet trek home.
Well, that was until I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and fell into you, knocking you over from your sitting position so that you were lying underneath me.

As soon as I regained the ability to focus, I jumped off of you and I could feel my face blushing every shade of red and pink on the planet.
I apologized in twenty different ways (and I would’ve used different languages if I knew how), but you assured me that it was okay and somehow we ended up walking home in the rain together.
Well, I walked in the rain.
You walked relatively dry because I was holding my sweatshirt over your head.

We got to your porch and I slowly took my sweatshirt down.
You thanked me and smiled.
I couldn’t help but stare and smile myself.
You blushed and looked away before bidding me goodbye and going into your house.


now you’re sixteen and I’m seventeen.
here we are and here we have been for the past year and a halfish.
so there you have it.
I’ve been in love with you since I was seven.”

You nodded at me as I finished my story.

"Ponyboy, you really are my Prince Charming.”

I shrugged and threw my arm around you, pulling you into a hug.

I sighed and whispered in your ear,

“Hey, what can I say? Love is a fairytale.”

Not all dogs go to heaven.

I came home to mine dying on the faux axminster

Ya know what its like to not be able to breathe?

Your lungs are straws with needle sized holes in em

Only the straws are for ants.

As a kid I spent nights in the Emergency Room getting treatments for my breathing

I try to counter that with cigarettes

don’t ask me why I’m such a hypocrite.

Maybe it came genetically like these eyes from mom or this thirst from dad

That I’m tryin my best to explain poetically.

It’s 3:32 AM and my big yellow dog has lungs that are straws for ants

Breathing- aren’t we supposed to be able to do that unconsciously?

I see myself in his clouded eyes and all of a sudden I can’t breathe

And all those nights spent drivin when the billboards were laughin

 I used to believe he had magic in him

The way he’d know when the ghosts were visitin

And sit close wanting only a hand on his head

Don’t we all just want a hand on our heads

But I can’t watch him die on the faux axminster.

So I pile some Benadryl in to a piece of kraft cheese

And I give it to him and hold my big yellow dog until he falls asleep.

You wanna watch your dad cry?

Take him to have your dog put to sleep.

Put to sleep – as if dead things dream – do dead things dream?

Sad things don’t dream I say that from experience 

Amazing piece submitted by this lovely lady.