The Watchdogs

High on a crumbling brick wall, two cats hold their ground. One, a tabby, sits upright, eyes locked on the camera with the unwavering stare of an appointed sentinel. The other, black and white, looks away, uninterested in the act of vigilance, its attention claimed by something out of frame.

Behind them, the backdrop tells another story: a weathered industrial wall, its whitewash worn thin, the rusted blades of an old ventilation fan frozen in their casing. Wires run haphazardly across the façade, relics of a building that has seen better days. It’s an unlikely setting for such a scene, yet the pairing of living presence and decaying architecture feels perfectly balanced.

The title The Watchdog plays with expectation. The word conjures canines, chains, and snarls, but here, the role of guardian falls to a creature far less obvious. The tabby’s gaze is firm, almost territorial, as if aware of its symbolic promotion. Its partner, however, undermines the drama—proof that in any post, one sentry is alert while the other is already thinking of dinner.

Photographically, the composition works through its layers: the coarse texture of the brick, the softness of fur, the geometry of the wall, and the circle of the fan above. It’s a portrait of place as much as of animals, a reminder that guardianship can be quiet, subtle, and—sometimes—unexpectedly feline.