The Guardian

Not scaring as a Pitbull would, but still deserving to be handled with care…

He didn’t move. Not even when I approached with the camera. Not even when I paused to adjust the lens. He just stared—calm, unblinking, sure of his place.

This photo was taken outside a closed wooden structure. Maybe a seasonal shack, maybe a beachside store. The railings were weathered, the wood silvered by sun and salt. Everything about the setting felt unfinished, in-between. Except for him.

The black cat sat at the centre like he’d been assigned the role. Not hiding, not curious—just there. Positioned perfectly in the geometry of the fence, flanked by empty space and balanced by shadow. His eyes sharp. His posture patient. There was no doubt: this place was under watch.

I framed it from low and far, letting the lines lead in. Every slat and post converged on him—not because I told them to, but because that’s how the scene was already built. All I had to do was see it.

Some guardians wear uniforms. Others have fur and time.