Way the dogs.

Oh, for a dog's life. And the possibility of achieving immortality through one's owner.

Such is the fate of two fortunate liver-colored dachshunds, Stanley, age 12, and his somewhat porkier pal, Boodgie, 10. They're the subjects of a series of paintings and sketches by their owner, artist David Hockney. Collected in David Hockney's Dog Days, appearing this spring from Bulfinch Press, Hockney's dachshund portraits reveal a wanner, more affectionate side of the British-born painter, who's probably best known for his formalist depictions of Southern California's shimmering swimming pools, wafting palm trees, and hissing summer lawns--as well as his methodically composed portraits of family and friends, both platonic and otherwise.

One of Hockney's favorite portrait subjects was his longtime friend Henry Geldzahler, curator of the Metropolitan Museum. And it was in response to Geldzahler's death five years ago that Hockney turned to his beloved dachshunds for creative inspiration and a bit of solace.

Seated in a loosely slip-covered chair in his vast two-story studio, which lies adjacent to his home of 20 years in the hills above Hollywood, Hockney's British reserve fades for a moment when he speaks of Stanley and Boodgie. Behind a scrim of cigarette smoke from his ever-present Camel, Hockney says, "The dogs are my little friends, and I started [painting] them just after Henry died. It was probably my wanting a tender, loving subject. That was my feeling then."

For the 61-year-old artist, the loss of a close friend of long standing is a particularly difficult life passage. Hockney sketches a mental portrait of their relationship--summers in the Italian countryside together, speaking on the phone every day. "You can't make a new friend of 30 years," he observes.

Another reminder of mortality is the sudden aging of his dachshunds. In the book's preface he wittily recalls what unwilling models they were, distracted by the slightest noise and loath to hold a pose whether asleep or awake. "Much of it had to be done from observation. Now they lie stiller," he says, his eyes falling on Stanley and Boodgie, napping idly side by side on a large cushion at his feet. "They're older. The years have done more to them than to me."

Such comments aside, Hockney devotes little time to reflection. The dog series is four years past, and he's hardly been idle since. He's painting flowers ("It's a challenge to paint flowers today because most people think they're a dreadfully corny subject"); another series on the transparency of light (this time, instead of swimming pools, he's depicting bottles of Evian next to glasses of water); and, most recently, landscapes of the Grand Canyon and his native Yorkshire.

Hockney's studio is dominated by one such vista of the Grand Canyon, a larger-than-CinemaScope landscape rendered in impossibly vivid oranges, purples, and yellows. It's another potentially "corny" subject that has caught his attention. "I'm fascinated by those images," he says. "It's so interesting to see all that space and find a way to capture it."

Hockney motions his hand in an invitation to follow as he climbs to the second floor for a better view of other, more contained Grand Canyon canvases, which hang on an adjacent wall. "They look much more spacious from up here," he explains. And indeed, from a distance the gradations of the chasm are more distinct. They contrast sharply with the other intense landscapes, whose swirling strokes of color capture the parceled (or "husbanded," as Hockney refers to them) fields of East Yorkshire, a land of "Gothic gloom" where the artist was born and raised, though he has spent half his life in Los Angeles.

Once a familiar part of the Los Angeles art community, Hockney has taken to staying home with his work. "I used to see more of new [artists]," he confesses, "but I don't leave here that much. The young are interested in what others are doing. When you're a [successful working] artist, you always have something to do."

But perhaps a more significant reason for his self-imposed exile is his deteriorating hearing (he wears a hearing aid for interviews), which has had a significant impact on his life. "I've stopped going to big events," he says. "[When your hearing is compromised] all the background noise becomes one. I used to be a great fidget, move about a lot, but that was because I couldn't hear. People thought I was rude, and I'm not by nature rude to people I don't know."

The hearing loss has also separated him from his other great love, designing for the opera. There are revivals of his work; his highly praised The Magic Flute was performed at the Metropolitan Opera in New York this year. And he's been asked to design a new production of Parsifal, though he will likely decline. "I can't hear the music as well, and I base everything on the music. I certainly know Parsifal," he says with barely suppressed frustration, "but I've done enough theater."

The decision sounds tentative, for in many ways his energy and elan have not diminished. Daily workouts on the treadmill and in his swimming pool keep him bovish and agile. "I admit I'm probably driven, always on the go," he says. "I'm not good if I don't work."

One of the few ingredients absent from Hockney's life is a steady romantic interest. "It would be nice to have a [nonplatonic] friend again," he says. "It's been two years since..." His voice trails off for a moment, only to quickly return: "Once you get into work--well, it's big. I'm not very social. I accept it. I won't spend a lot of time worrying about it. I live for now."