Dear Theo,
First things first—Happy Birthday!
Sorry for the late wishes. I've been swamped lately, sketching every single day. Plus, my life has been thrown into chaos by a new houseguest. In fact, as I write this letter, the intruder is currently sprawled across my lap, staring at me.
Say hello to Van Doggy!
Yes, my new lodger is a dog—a little lady who decided to follow me home.
Remember that garden I mentioned? The one beside the Arles hospital? I’d been meaning to capture the colors of morning, so when I saw the irises blooming, I made up my mind to wake up early and paint them. I grabbed a ham sandwich from the breakfast shop near the hospital, planning to observe how the sunlight danced on the petals as I ate. The way the colors shift in layers—it’s mesmerizing.
As I bent down to study the flowers closely, something rustled in the iris bushes. Startled, I jumped back, stepped on a rock, and—bam!—landed flat on my backside. It hurt. For a split second, I panicked. What if it’s a snake? I scrambled backward—only to hear the ominous sound of fabric ripping. And would you believe it? My first thought wasn’t about the potential snakebite but: Great. Now I’ll be walking around town with a giant hole in my pants. That’s just fantastic.
As it turned out, there was no snake—just a mud-covered puppy, wagging her tail like she had just won the lottery. She shook herself off, spraying me with dirt, then made a beeline for my fallen sandwich, sniffed it, and looked at me expectantly.
“You want that?” I asked.
“Woof!”
And just like that, my breakfast was history.
She looked up at me after finishing, wagging her tail in pure delight. Her eyes were round and bright, so full of life. I held out my hand, and she cautiously approached, sniffed my fingers, then spun around and plopped down beside me, staring at me with the most innocent expression. My heart melted on the spot.
Surely, such a well-behaved dog must have an owner. Maybe she was lost? I decided to sketch her and post the drawing at the police station’s bulletin board. I pulled out my sketchbook and got to work. Once done, I headed home—only to realize the little rascal was trotting right beside me, tail wagging, eyes occasionally glancing up at me like I was some kind of hero (or maybe she was just hoping for more food).
I couldn’t bring myself to shoo her away.
“Well,” I sighed, “you can stay for now. But you need a name. How about Van Doggy?”
“Woof!”
And so, Van Doggy was born.
The moment we got home, she jumped onto my bed and gleefully rubbed her face all over my fresh sheets—my brand-new sheets that Mom just sent me! Furious, I roared at her, even raised my hand in exasperation. She froze, curled into a little ball, and gave me the most pitiful look—tail twitching hesitantly, as if she knew she’d done something wrong but had no idea what.
And just like that, my anger evaporated.
Maybe her previous owner let her do this? With a resigned sigh, I changed the sheets and gave her a bath—an ordeal, let me tell you. But in the end, I was glad I did. Turns out, beneath all that mud, she’s a fluffy white pup with charming coffee-colored spots, and oh-so fluffy—like a living, breathing plush toy you can’t resist petting!.
Van the pup is such a good dog. Over the next few weeks, she became my shadow, curling up at my feet as I sketched, only ever stirring to remind me it was mealtime or bathroom break time. Her internal clock is more precise than my watch! Before eating, she always gives me a happy little lick on the cheek—talk about a heart-melting routine.
It took me three weeks to finish her portrait. I proudly took it to the police station, only for them to squint at it and ask, “Uh… what is this?”
Unbelievable. I thought I captured her soulful presence in the iris field perfectly! You be the judge—I’ve attached a sketch. What do you think?
Dejected, I left the station with Van Doggy and let her lead the way. As if sensing my mood, she took me to the flower market. The vibrant colors lifted my spirits, but choosing a flower to paint was impossible—they all seemed to call out to me!
Van Doggy must have sensed that I wasn’t holding the leash tightly—because the next second, she yanked the leash from my grasp and bolted. My heart sank. Is she running back to her real owner? I was shocked by how much that thought upset me.
But a moment later, she came bounding back—with a sunflower bigger than her head clenched in her jaws.
Right behind her was a very angry shopkeeper, broom in hand, shouting, “WHOSE DOG IS THIS?!”
To make amends, I bought an entire armload of sunflowers. Van Doggy, stubborn as ever, refused to let go of her prize, so I ended up leading her home, both of us buried under a ridiculous mountain of yellow petals. People on the street laughed at the spectacle.
That night, inspiration struck. I painted Van Doggy and her beloved sunflower. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time with her, but this time—no sketches, no outlines, just pure feeling. And I loved the result. I’ve attached a small version. Can you feel Van Doggy’s passion for sunflowers?
Turns out, she doesn’t love sunflowers. She loves someone who loves sunflowers.
I brought the painting back to the police station. This time, it wasn’t to help find Van’s owner—I was just curious to see what those officers who laughed at me last time would say. Their verdict? “Why don’t you paint something more normal?”
Normal? How could I possibly capture my feelings with normal colors and techniques?
As I was trying to figure out how to explain this to them, something unexpected happened. A man walked in to file a report, and the moment Van Doggy saw him, she lost it—barking excitedly, leaping toward him.
“Coco?! Is that you?!” the man gasped.
Van Doggy—or Coco, apparently—was a stray he and his daughter had rescued from under a bridge during a storm.
That day, it was pouring rain. As he and his young daughter walked across the bridge, they heard a faint, desperate whimper. His daughter insisted on finding the source of the sound, and that’s when they discovered a tiny puppy stranded on a sandbar, moments away from being swept away by the river.
He quickly gathered help, and thanks to their efforts, Coco was saved. His daughter begged him to let Coco stay with them, and he agreed. Maybe that’s why the bond between them is so strong.
One day, the little girl suddenly collapsed and had to be rushed to the emergency room in an ambulance.
The man guessed that in the chaos, Coco had leaped out of the living room window to follow the ambulance—because when he got home, he found the window slightly open… and Coco was gone.
I told him that I had found Coco in the hospital garden.
The father sighed in realization. “Ah, the doctors transferred my daughter to the children's hospital that day. That must be why Coco was wandering around that garden—he was looking for her.”
The father told me his daughter was still recovering but had been asking about Coco every day. No one had the heart to tell her the pup was missing. “Finding Coco here—it’s a miracle. Thank you for keeping her safe.”
Since the hospital doesn’t allow pets, I decided to bring my paintings instead. The little girl, probably five or six years younger than you, is adorable—and she loves my work. She said both paintings “felt just like Coco.” Her dad even wanted to buy them!
That meant the world to me. I often wonder if my art is just a delusion, if my work has any value at all. But their appreciation gave me the strength to keep going.
In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to sell the paintings.
Because once Coco goes home, they’ll be all I have left of her.
For now, she’s still here with me. Her dad decided to let her stay until his daughter is discharged. I left the paintings to keep her company in the hospital, and Van Doggy—Coco—remains by my side, curled up as I sketch.
It’s late. The stars are out. I can see a painting in my mind already, swirling twirling sky above a sleeping village, itching to be put on canvas.
Take care of Mom and Dad for me. Stay warm.
With love,
Vincent (and Van Doggy)
P.S.
I just finished the sketch, what do you think?
