My Dogs Have Never Seen My Best Photographs

In one photograph, I’m in heels, looking straight into the camera.
Somewhere in the house, there’s a pair of boots my dogs find considerably more interesting.

I can spend an afternoon getting the light right for a portrait.

At home, I can pick up my keys and have an audience before I’ve even found my coat. They know the difference between the shoes I wear to go out and the shoes I wear to take them out.

I sometimes think they know it before I do.

If my dogs made a photo album of me, I wonder what they’d put in it.

Probably a close-up of my hand opening the cupboard. Several pictures of the front door at various stages of opening. One of me sitting on the floor, where, as far as they’re concerned, I should sit more often.

I’d quite like to see that album. I spend enough time looking at photographs and remembering what was happening just outside the frame. In theirs, I’d get to see the ordinary bits from where they were standing. I suspect I’d look at those pictures for longer than I do at most portraits of myself.

What would they put on the cover? The boots, obviously. With just enough of me in the picture to put them on.