If someone told me a year ago I'd fall head
over paws in love with a dog that would literally devour the trim on my car, my aging fence, puppy chew toys ad naseum, our socks and shoes, buried coaxial TV cable, my remote control, every bed we bought for him, half a dozen pillows, Grannie's quilt, stuffed animals, a big orange Home Depot bucket, a BBQ grill
cover, patio furniture, saplings, two big flower beds, scores of recyclables, garage stuff galore, plus half a
cord of firewood, I would have raised one eyebrow and said, «Yeah sure, what have you been smoking?»
Some of these are playful: West's 2012 work with Marina Faust, Talk Without Words (Christopher Wool) for example, a large mohair ball hung on a
cord over a table, with visitors invited to knock the ball to each other with their foreheads; or the artist's venture with Rudolf Polansky, Siesta (2003), a couch
covered with a throw printed with the repeated motif of an ape's sphincter.