It was 1908 and Schicklgruber was down on his luck. He had applied for entry to the Academy of Arts in Vienna but his application had been rejected and now his money was running out.
He wandered the streets selling postcard impressions of Vienna to passers by and he would sleep on park benches and eat from soup kitchens at night.
I was down on my luck too. A sorry looking German Shepherd.
I suppose he felt a kinship with me, given that he was enamoured of things German.
He fondled my coat and fed me scraps and we wandered the streets together, he pale, scrawny and hungry, and me, shaggy and unkempt.
One day, by chance, he sold a postcard to a Jewish businessman who happened to be passing.
This would prove to be a stroke of good fortune.
The man, Herr Geldenschlab, sought us out a day or two later.
‘Young man,’ he enthused. ‘You have talent. May I see more of your work?’
‘Sod it!’ Schicklgruber, exclaimed. ‘I destroyed it all in a fit of pique.’
He had a bad temper.
‘Never mind,’ Geldenschlab told him. ‘Permit me to be your patron and agent.’
And that is how it all began.
Through the good offices of Geldenschlab, Schicklgruber’s dream of artistic success was realised. No more of those dreams of dictating a boring book in a prison cell or sporting a silly moustache.
Life looked up for me too.
I was Schicklgruber’s dog.
Copyright R L Tilley 2008
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