Imagine a bovine alien in your garden. His eyes don’t mimic almonds, his body doesn’t don the silver suit of a galactic wanderer.
Rather, he stands on vertical hooves, his exposed trunk an expanse of weathered coil and spring.
He is the nightmare of a thousand childhood sci-fi movies. He is the height of a gnome, the monster under your bed. His head carries the ragged antennae of a sideshow bull’s horns. He looks cute, terrifying, an oil-pitch sentry. He is the somehow living recycled hothouse buffalo man of Las Vegas sculptor Debbie Morse.