When you imagine your dog, what comes to mind?
A blur of zoomies across the yard, wiggly greeting at the door? Maybe it’s more snapshot than movie, that face when you say “walk?”. You might just get quick impressions. Toes, nose, the fold of an ear.
Everyone experiences it differently, but most people can see something.
Me? I can't see a thing.
aphantasia
aph·an·ta·sia | ˌa-ˌfan-ˈtā-zh(ē-)ə
inability to form mental images of real or imaginary people, places, or things
I didn't know the word aphantasia until recently. But it’s meant I’ve always relied on photographs in a way most people don't. There are countless childhood pictures of me with other people’s dogs because I wanted to ‘keep them.’ Even as a kid, I saw photographs as a way to hold on to things.
When I realized a camera can make a moment last forever, photography became an obsession.
The first thing I pointed my camera at was dogs. First my own, then other people’s. Years of working in vet hospitals taught me how short "forever" can be when it comes to our dogs. And how important these pictures would someday become.
Most people don’t need photographs the same way I do. But my struggle to form visual memories taught me how to capture them for others. Because the best pictures feel like a memory. And the best pictures of our dogs don’t just remind us how they look — but how it feels to love them.