A quiet watchdog or long-time friend who enjoys some rest??

I was walking through a narrow street in Rome when I saw him—stretched across the threshold of a dusty antiques shop like a soft barricade. Head down, ears flat, but not asleep. Not quite. He was watching with the kind of calm that doesn’t need to prove anything.

The Leica M9 was set to zone focus, aperture around f/5.6, and I didn’t have time to fuss. I framed, stepped slightly left to catch the reflections in the glass, and took the shot. The light was diffuse—no harsh shadows, just a steady wash of warmth from the tungsten bulbs inside, softened further by the grey sky outside. The exposure held nicely, pulling detail from the interior while retaining the soft midtones in the dog’s coat.

Compositionally, it’s anchored by the triangle formed between the dog, the chest of drawers, and the shadowed figure in the back. A touch of red—the pom-pom hanging from the handle—breaks the monochrome rhythm, drawing the eye just off-centre. The angle of the dog’s body leads the viewer in, gently, without force.

It’s a quiet frame, and it needed to be. I didn’t want to romanticise it. The dog isn’t performing. He’s just occupying space with authority, the way only an old street dog or an experienced shopkeeper can. He doesn’t guard the place—he is the place.