Not counting the person who once took one of my pieces home for “safe keeping” after an exhibit closed (yes, you know who you are), I never expected my art to inspire an actual theft. Granted, the attempt wasn’t especially well planned.

The would-be thief had an impressive wingspan and the kind of liquid coordination that let him snake his arm through a forest of merchandise, lifting the painting cleanly from its stand without even a telltale twang from the picture wire. Unfortunately for him, the speed of the move drew attention and stalled the surrounding conversation.

Caught, he glanced our way, then adopted the expression of someone merely checking how a piece looked under a different light source. That light source, coincidentally, was outside the store.

“No, it’s the tongue,” the would-be art critic interjected, adding a theatrical sigh. “Why do people always paint them with their tongues sticking out?”

Maybe because there are a lot of reference photos with Crestie tongues out? Given his intensity, I started to say instead, “Well, maybe my reference wasn’t AKC—” but he cut me off.

The would-be thief had an impressive wingspan and the kind of liquid coordination that let him snake his arm through a forest of merchandise, lifting the painting cleanly from its stand without even a telltale twang from the picture wire.

“Look. I have pictures of my own dogs.”

So, excuses were clearly not welcome. At least he didn’t object to the color, which made my Crestie look a bit like a punk rocker.

He reached into a very tight pair of shorts to retrieve his phone, the clear outline of which left no doubt it was an iPhone before it even cleared the pocket. Please let this be a very strange way of requesting a commission. Meanwhile, the store owner had quietly removed the painting from his grasp and tucked it safely out of sight (thank you Barbara). The man calmed down, and the situation seemed—diffused.

That’s when it got weird.

He flipped rapidly through images that looked like graphic evidence for a future personal-injury lawsuit before finally landing on photos of his dogs. True to his word, not a single tongue in sight.

When he began talking about how breeders who introduce flaws into the line should be “stopped”—the way he lingered on the word made it sound like more than a figure of speech—I ceased listening and started watching for signs of renewed aggression. I felt an enormous sense of relief when he finally left the store.

An hour later, I was convincing myself I’d imagined the worst of it. Maybe it had all been a fluke. Maybe I was just being dramatic.

…Except he came back. On two separate occasions. Both times, to try again.

At that point, it seemed wise to take the painting down and give everyone a few months’ rest.

Exit, stage left.