Winner of the Month: The Great Portrait Conspiracy

By Philip Parks

Tommy Weatherby stood stiffly in his freshly pressed sailor suit, staring at the camera with the expression of a condemned man. Beside him on the wooden chair sat his faithful companion, Rex—a distinguished pointer mix who possessed what Tommy's mother called "remarkable intelligence" and what Tommy knew to be an uncanny ability to read human emotions.

"Now then, young master," announced Mr. Blackwood, the photographer, adjusting his spectacles, "we'll have a lovely formal portrait for your dear aunt in Boston. She so wants to see how you've grown."

What Mr. Blackwood didn't realize was that he had just walked into the middle of an elaborate scheme that had been weeks in the planning.

Tommy had been dreading this portrait session ever since his mother announced it. He despised his sailor suit, loathed standing still, and absolutely abhorred the fake smile he was expected to produce on command. But Rex—clever Rex—had given him an idea during one of their evening conversations in the garden shed.

You see, Rex wasn't just any ordinary dog. He was a master of what Tommy had dubbed "selective obedience." When it suited him, Rex could sit, stay, and heel with military precision. But when he detected injustice—such as being forced to pose for stuffy photographs—Rex became mysteriously afflicted with temporary deafness and an irrepressible urge to cause chaos.

"Rex, sit," commanded Mr. Blackwood, waving his hand authoritatively.

Rex tilted his head with exaggerated confusion, as if the word "sit" were a foreign concept he'd never encountered. His amber eyes sparkled with barely contained mischief.

Tommy bit his lip to keep from grinning. Phase One was in motion.

"Perhaps if you could encourage your dog to—" Mr. Blackwood began, but Rex had already launched into Phase Two.

With the grace of a ballet dancer and the timing of a vaudeville performer, Rex rose on his hind legs and began what could only be described as a waltz. He spun in circles, his tongue lolling out in apparent joy, completely destroying any hope of a dignified portrait.

"Rex!" Tommy called out in mock dismay, secretly thrilled. "What's gotten into you?"

But Rex was just warming up. He leaped down from the chair and began investigating Mr. Blackwood's photography equipment with the enthusiasm of a scientific researcher. He sniffed the camera legs, examined the flash powder with intense concentration, and showed particular interest in the photographer's jacket pocket, which contained what Tommy knew to be a ham sandwich.

"Most irregular!" huffed Mr. Blackwood, chasing after Rex with increasingly frantic gestures.

"I've never encountered such a... spirited animal!"

Tommy watched the scene unfold with growing delight. This was even better than they'd planned. Rex was improvising brilliantly, adding flourishes that elevated their simple disruption into high art.

As Mr. Blackwood bent over to adjust his tripod, Rex seized his moment. With surgical precision, he extracted the ham sandwich from the photographer's pocket and retreated to his chair, where he proceeded to enjoy his prize with obvious satisfaction.

"My lunch!" exclaimed Mr. Blackwood.

"Oh dear," said Tommy, not sounding sorry at all. "Rex has very particular tastes. He only steals food from people he really likes."

This was, of course, a complete fabrication. Rex stole food from everyone equally, but Tommy had learned that adults were remarkably susceptible to flattery, even when delivered by an eight-year-old accomplice to sandwich theft.

Mr. Blackwood softened slightly. "Well, I suppose that's... rather endearing."

Rex, sensing victory, decided to deploy his secret weapon: the Look. He gazed up at Mr. Blackwood with enormous, soulful eyes that seemed to say, "I am but a simple dog, overwhelmed by the magnificent complexity of your photographic equipment. Surely you cannot hold my natural curiosity against me?"

It was a look that had gotten Rex out of trouble for everything from digging up Mrs. Patterson's prize roses to somehow getting his head stuck in a pickle jar. Tommy had seen grown men reduced to puddles by the Look.

Mr. Blackwood was no exception.

"Perhaps," the photographer said slowly, "we might try a more... casual approach? Something that captures the natural bond between a boy and his dog?"

Tommy's heart leaped. This was beyond their wildest hopes.

"You mean, not so formal?" Tommy asked, trying to sound innocent rather than triumphant.

"Exactly! Let's see some genuine interaction. Play with your dog, young man. Show me that friendship!"

And so began the most joyful photo session of Tommy's life. Instead of standing rigid in his uncomfortable sailor suit, he found himself laughing as Rex performed his entire repertoire of tricks—some learned, some invented on the spot. They played fetch with Mr. Blackwood's lens cap, practiced Rex's famous "wounded soldier" routine (where he dramatically collapsed and played dead), and even attempted a few dance steps together.

Mr. Blackwood, now completely charmed by Rex's performance, captured it all with growing enthusiasm. "Marvelous! Natural! This is photography as it should be!"

Years later, when Tommy had grown up to become a successful advertising executive, he would credit Rex with teaching him the most valuable lesson of his career: sometimes the best way to get what you want is to make the other person think it was their idea all along.

The formal portrait was never taken, but the candid photographs from that afternoon became treasured family heirlooms. In every single frame, both boy and dog are grinning with the unmistakable satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed.

Rex lived to the ripe old age of fourteen, during which time he never met a formal occasion he couldn't successfully sabotage or a photographer he couldn't completely bewitch. Tommy's mother eventually stopped trying to get proper portraits taken, deciding that chaos, after all, was far more interesting than perfection.