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50 precious paint cans into the car. I looked up and sent another message. “Two gallons will have to do.” Next day we painted the exterior of our new art gallery to get rid of the nasty mustard color. Bob touched the last spot on the second story with the very last drop of white paint from the second can. I smiled up at him and reminded him of what I’d said to overcome his protests. “See? I told you it would cover the whole thing.” I hugged him when he climbed down to stand beside to admire the paint job. “Now we have to do something to the insides. We have plenty of good paintings, and those small sculptures. Now we have to give them a nice place to be displayed.” Later that same night, outside Don’s Carpet Company on Third Street, I found a treasure. I filled the back seat and trunk of our car with throwaway carpet scraps. Back at the gallery I fitted those carpet pieces over the scarred wooden floors on both levels, then tacked them into place. “Looks beautiful,” I stood and pressed my hand against my aching back. “One more thing.” I stood silently for a moment. “We need a name.” The sound from next door came through loud and clear as usual. I felt laughter bubbling up. “Let’s call it ‘The Barking Dog.’ That’s it!” Bob agreed that the name was perfect and it was. My first show was a hit. I say “my” because Bob was still involved with actually being an artist who painted or sculpted on a project every day. We’d let his work form the backbone of our first inventory of paintings for sale. Of course, he was the real artist in the family so that seemed fair to me. I’d decided that I could be an artist only part of the time. The rest of the time I had dreams of being a mover and shaker within Tulsa’s art world. We’d already tried with a gallery and had had some success. We’d become the center of a large group of interested artists and art lovers. I thought that if I worked at it in this new place I Barbara Bartholic as told to Peggy Fielding