Rigor mortis can do some strange things to a body. Take, for instance, this dove:
My parents came out for the holidays last year, and while we were taking a walk to the Spring River Zoo one afternoon, we found this dove perching on a bridge pillar. We thought it was asleep, but a poke with a stick from my dad soon proved otherwise.
Not wanting to waste a good sketching opportunity, Dad pulled out an old handkerchief, swaddled the stiff bird, and carried it back to the apartment. (it's not the first time he's brought home dead animals for me to draw; on other occasions he's found me a bat and a duck). With an hour or so of good light left, I set it up on my porch outside and drew while my parents read inside. Afterwards, I set the bird out by alley behind my apartment, where it eventually disappeared.
I always feel fortunate to have such understanding parents.
My parents came out for the holidays last year, and while we were taking a walk to the Spring River Zoo one afternoon, we found this dove perching on a bridge pillar. We thought it was asleep, but a poke with a stick from my dad soon proved otherwise.
Not wanting to waste a good sketching opportunity, Dad pulled out an old handkerchief, swaddled the stiff bird, and carried it back to the apartment. (it's not the first time he's brought home dead animals for me to draw; on other occasions he's found me a bat and a duck). With an hour or so of good light left, I set it up on my porch outside and drew while my parents read inside. Afterwards, I set the bird out by alley behind my apartment, where it eventually disappeared.
I always feel fortunate to have such understanding parents.
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