I stopped posting photographs on Instagram (and posting anything on Facebook) back in January of this year (2025), after Mark Zuckerberg (you know…the desperately uncool dweeb who owns Meta, the parent company of IG and FB) announced Meta was ending its fact-checking program and ‘easing’ content moderation.
FB had already become a hostile, advert-bloated social medium; as much as I loved keeping in touch with friends, the FB experience itself was annoying and aggravating. The new policies only promised to make it worse. The problems with IG were different. A lot of people were getting caught up in the illusion of ‘perfect IG lives’ and that created all sorts of emotional health issues. I was only there for the photography, not for ‘lifestyle’ stuff. While it didn’t affect me, the fact that Zuckerberg didn’t care that if it DID affect a lot of people…especially young people…was reason enough to leave.
O Holy Mop Bucket (Tuesday, Aug. 26, 2025)
Why am I returning to Instagram? For the same reason I joined in the first place. Photography. I miss seeing good photography. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of good photography on Bluesky, my preferred social medium, but it’s not well organized. In fact, it’s barely organized at all. Bsky is great, but it’s not photocentric. Instagram is. IG allows me to have a curated experience. I can follow a select group of photographers, who sometimes lead me to other interesting photographers.
I’m not doing this to become a ‘better’ photographer (although I think looking at–and trying to understand–good photos CAN lead a person to try new things, which can make you a better photographer). I’m doing this simply because looking at good photography makes me happy. Being happy is a good reason for doing anything, and it’s especially important these days.
I could, of course, just look at the good photos shot by other people; I don’t have any obligation to post anything. By posting (either photos or comments on the photos of other folks), I’m basically supporting the platform, which benefits Zuckerberg. But looking without participating is cowardly and furtive. If I’m going to use the platform, I have to take responsibility for it. So, this morning I posted a photograph on Instagram for the first time since January.
Here’s a stupid thing: when I decided I was going to actually return to IG, I felt some weird pressure to post the ‘right’ photo. A “Return to IG” photo. Something somehow meaningful, something symbolic (I told you it was stupid). So I opened up my photo app with that in mind. But I immediately saw the photo above and thought, “Oooh, mop bucket” like a little kid. So in the end, I just posted the first photo that caught my eye.
The only thing I know about keeping livestock is…okay, I don’t know anything about keeping livestock. I mean, I know it’s hard work. I don’t know that from experience, since I’ve never kept livestock, but even sharing space with a pet (cats and dogs, certainly, and probably birds and lizards, what do I know?) means cleaning up after them. Even the tidiest of cats uses a litterbox and somebody has to deal with that.
Why am I talking about this? Because looking over the photographs I took at the recent Iowa State Fair, I noticed I have a lot of photos of farm people cleaning stuff. Cleaning their animals, cleaning the gear needed to take care of their animals, cleaning the things their animals pull, cleaning up massive amounts of animal shit. Everywhere I went, men and women and kids were busy cleaning.
Cooperative cow-washing.
And when I say ‘cleaning their animals,’ I don’t mean they were just washing them (although there’s an astonishing amount of animal-washing going on all the time). I mean they’re shampooing them, blow-drying them, combing them, trimming them, vacuuming them.
A little light goat-vacuuming.
Seriously, people were vacuuming off…something, I don’t know what. Loose hair? Dandruff? Barn grit? No idea, but everywhere you go in the animal barns at the fair, there are men and women and kids vacuuming their livestock.
Women grooming sheep while men sit and chat.
These animals weren’t just being cleaned; they were being groomed. Meticulously groomed. (Okay, sorry, a slight tangent here. The term groom has a slightly hazy etymology. It’s probably(?) related to the Old English growan, meaning ‘to grow.’ At any rate, by the 14th century groom referred to a male servant who attended to officers (and their gear and horses) in a noble household. By the 19th century, the noun had been verbed, and groom referred to the process of tidying up or preparing for a purpose. So groom referred to both a person and what the person did. I don’t know why I thought you needed to know that, but there it is.)
A young girl vacuuming (or blow-drying) a cow.
As I was saying, these livestock animals (and I’m talking about cows, horses, pigs, goats, sheep, llamas, alpacas (is that the plural of ‘alpaca’?), rabbits, and chickens (do rabbits and chickens count as livestock? No idea.) are meticulously groomed. It’s clear that some of the grooming is done in the hope of winning a prize, but it was also clear that much of it was done out of pride and affection. That was especially true of the younger people.
Equine pedicure.
Here’s a thing you probably need to understand. All this cleaning and grooming? It’s taking place in and around massive cooperative barns housing hundreds of animals. Animals are noisy, so these barns are a constant barrage of animal noises. Also? Animals shit and piss a lot. I mean, a LOT. And they’re not particular about where or when they do it. So even though there’s a constant stream (so to speak) of people shoveling, sweeping up, and carting of waste products (the logistics of livestock waste management must be staggering), the fact remains that these massive barns…well, they smell like you’d think they’d smell, but not as bad as you’d expect.
Bovine shampoo.
What I’m trying to say here is that there’s an astonishing amount of hard work done by the farm families who bring their livestock to the fair, and all that work makes the environment as pleasant as possible. One of my reasons for visiting the animal barns during the State Fair is to look at animals, of course, but it’s also to see this remarkable group of people cobble together a shared sense of community. There’s something very tribal about it. And as a sociologist by training, it’s fascinating.
Detailing a wagon wheel.
But here’s the problem with being a sociologist: I know that the farming community I see at the State Fair is, largely, a myth. Around 40% of farms in Iowa are owned by corporations. Modern farming, even among non-corporate farms, is a business more than a self-sufficient way of life. The farming life we witness at the State Fair is something of a sentimental homage to an idea of rural living from the past. An homage grounded in nostalgia and an agrarian myth.
But so what? I’d argue there’s value in that. The fact is, it’s not corporations who are grooming their livestock at the State Fair. It’s not corporations who are hauling manure and polishing wagon wheels. It’s families doing that.
My visits to the State Fair animal barns always leave me impressed (and yes, a wee bit stunned by the smell and noise). I leave those barns profoundly grateful there are people–families–still willing to do the hard work of making sure the world gets fed. As myths go, this is a pretty damned good one, and I’m glad folks are keeping it alive.
A couple of days ago I wrote about a photograph I’d taken of some cracks and oil stains in a random patch of blacktop. It may seem a wee bit weird to photograph a patch of blacktop, but…well, just wait. In that post, I briefly referred to the fact that there’s a difference between blacktop and asphalt. That sparked a reply to the post, and that reply reminded me of an earlier crushed stone and bitumen-related photograph I’d taken fifteen years ago.
Now that was weird.
Back in November of 2010 I was noodling around a location where a local supermarket had been demolished. All that remained of the store was its foundational slab and what had once been a parking lot. That’s where I came across something odd.
November 13, 2010
Yep, that’s a chunk of asphalt curbing around which somebody had tied a strand of red PVC-coated wire. Why would somebody do that? I don’t know, but I assumed it was to make it easier to carry. Why would somebody want to carry a chunk of asphalt curbing? No idea. I located the spot from which the curbing had been removed about 20 yards away. There were several similar chunks of broken asphalt curbing. But somebody had selected that particular chunk, tied red PVC wire around it, and moved it.
Why? No fucking clue. But it was odd, and I do love things that are odd.
December 23, 2010
So I returned to that spot about six weeks later. The chunk of curbing was still there. It had snowed, but the snow had melted off the chunk. A heron had apparently been curious enough to check it out. Not sure if that meant the heron was as curious as I was, or if I was as stupid as a heron.
Anyway, I stood there in the snow for a while, trying to cobble together some semi-logical reason for somebody to tie some PVC wire around a chunk of curbing and carry it twenty yards before dropping it. I was sure there was a logical reason; not necessarily logical to me, but logical to the person who did it. But I’m damned if I could figure it out.
February 16, 2011
I found myself occasionally wondering about that chunk of curbing and the red PVC wire. Did the person just happen to have some red PVC wire in their pocket? Had they deliberately brought the wire with them, intending to move the chunk of curbing? And why why why would they want to move it in the first place? It made no sense, but I was intrigued by it.
So I went back again on a cold, wet, foggy day in February. And yep, it was still there.
February 16, 2011
It wasn’t just strange; it was also visually interesting. I was taken with that red PVC wire. I considered taking hold of the wire and lifting the chunk, just to see how heavy it was. But I was reluctant to disturb it. It wasn’t just an object of curiosity anymore. That’s when I began to think of the chunk of curbing as a possible photo project. Which meant it didn’t seem right to intentionally change anything about the subject matter.
April 13, 2011
I returned to visit the chunk of curbing about a month later and was shocked to see it had been moved. Somebody had apparently picked it up, carried it about twenty-five feet, at which point the red PVC wire had snapped.
I can’t imagine many people would find a reason to noodle around the detritus of a former supermarket. But IF somebody did, and IF that somebody happened upon the chunk of curbing, then surely they’d be tempted to pick it up. I mean, I’d been tempted to pick it up myself. The way the PVC wire was wrapped around the chunk of curbing–it was clearly intended for it to be picked up. Who could resist it?
Somebody didn’t resist it. Somebody had seen it, had picked it up, and toted the chunk of curbing twenty-five feet. Hell, that was the most understandable thing about the whole situation.
August 24, 2011
I didn’t get back to visit my pet chunk of asphalt curbing until late in the summer. As I approached, I saw two chunks. I thought maybe whomever had moved the curbing back in the spring must have returned and broken it.
But no. It was a second chunk of asphalt curbing. Somebody–maybe the same person who’d moved it earlier–had apparently gone to the spot where other chunks of curbing were scattered, picked up another chunk, carried it to the vicinity of my pet chunk, and dropped it.
This compounded the WTFedness of the situation. It reinforced the original weirdness. It made no sense at all. It was insane. It was…kind of wonderful. I was oddly pleased by the development.
September 8, 2011
I returned a month later. Not much had changed. Some orangish lichen had grown in a nearby crack and I spent some time trying to find a way to photograph the red PVC wire and the orange lichen, but nothing seemed to work. In the end, I just documented my chunk of asphalt curbing along with its companion.
I figured I’d just about come to the end of the chunk’s story. I was still curious about the whole thing, but the original aura weirdness was beginning to fade.
October 18, 2011
Still, I’d developed something of a perverse relationship with that chunk of curbing. I felt a need to check on it. So of course I went back.
The red PVC wire had moved. It had broken six months earlier, but a length of it had been trapped beneath the chunk of curbing. How did it get loose? Maybe a bird or animal had tugged on the wire and freed it? In any event, I took it as a sign (No, not that sort of sign; just an ordinary sign) that the project was at an end. Surely, the wire would soon get blown away. Without the red PVC wire, the chunk of curbing was just a chunk of curbing. As soon as it was gone, the photo project would be over.
December 20, 2011
I gave it a couple of months. I went back in December. Nothing had changed. As near as I could tell, the red PVC wire hadn’t even moved. That was…weird. You’d think that over the course of two months something would have moved the wire. But that was just minor league weird compared to the overall weirdness.
Still, I’d made the decision that I’d keep coming back until the red wire was gone. So I returned in the spring. The entire area was fenced off and construction equipment was tearing up the old parking lot.
There’s an apartment complex there now.
I no longer live in that area, but maybe once or twice a year there’ll be a reason for me to pass nearby. And when I do, I think about that chunk of asphalt curbing, and the bright red PVC-insulated wire, and the person who’d tied the wire into a parcel-carrier. And I wonder what in the hell they’d been doing, and why. And it pleases me that I’ll never know the answer.
So I’m in a parking lot. No, wait, not a parking lot…a parking area. It’s not like a parking lot outside a big box store, with lines designating parking spaces. This is just an extra wide bit of blacktop on a winding blacktop road through some woods near the spillway of a dam. It’s a place where people who fish the area above the spillway can park their cars.
On a weekday, it’s usually empty except for the occasional Asian or Latino immigrant looking to put some fish on the table. It’s a quiet spot. Shaded by trees. My partner and I sometimes make the half hour drive to this spot with a couple of camp chairs, something cool to drink, and our books. We sit, we read, we look at the birds, we listen to the wind in the trees, we chat with the folks who come to fish. On the way home we usually stop for ice cream. It’s nice.
She can sit still longer than I can. My knees are wonky and I have to get up periodically and stretch them. There’s always something to look at, and I’ve always got a camera with me, so occasionally I’ll take a photo. Yesterday I took a photo of the blacktop.
I don’t know why this particular patch of blacktop caught my attention, but it did. There are some cracks with little weedy bits growing in them, and some oil stains–some new, some faded. But it’s just blacktop (which isn’t asphalt, by the way; both blacktop and asphalt are made of crushed stone and bitumen, but the ratio of stone to bitumen is higher in blacktop, which can give it a more sparkly appearance–and lawdy, this is way more information than you need or want).
I pulled my Ricoh GR3X out of my pocket and looked at that patch of blacktop from several different angles and directions. I raised the camera higher, I lowered it closer to the surface, looking for a different framing of the patch. I probably spent three or four minutes trying to get the framing just right. Then I took this single photo.
I looked up to see my partner was watching me. She said,
“Bug?” “What?” “Where you taking a picture of a bug or something?” “Oh. No. Just the blacktop.”
She looked at me for a moment, then nodded and went back to her book. The sky is blue, the clouds are white and fluffy, the water ripples a wee bit with the wind. There are swallows hawking for insects just above the surface of the lake. A kettle of vultures is making lazy circles in the distance. And there’s Greg taking a photo of a patch of blacktop.
I posted this photograph on Bluesky a couple of days ago. I almost didn’t take it.
I was noodling around the edges of a demonstration and saw this guy, overcome with emotion (and maybe the heat), turn away and sit down. He was a big guy, bald, looked strong; not gym-strong, but work-strong. The anguish on his face was hard to look at but strangely beautiful. It was probably a moment he’d rather not have in public…but he did.
Overcome.
Okay, let me just get this out of the way: in the US you have no right to privacy when you’re in a public space. That’s the law. If you’re in public, other people have the right to take your photograph. The question is never whether it’s legal to take another person’s photo; the question is always whether it’s ethical or appropriate. Those are individual decisions and only the photographer gets to make them.
I wanted to take that guy’s photo. But I didn’t. It seemed too private, too personal. Then he put his hand up and covered his face. The depth of his emotion was still clear from his body language, but by covering his face the image became less about him as a person and more about the emotion itself. So I took one shot and moved on.
I don’t shoot a lot of photographs of people. When I do, it’s most often during a public event. A farmer’s market, a street fair, a protest march, a sporting event, that sort of thing. Sometimes I’ll shoot people in more generic public venues–at a fruit stand, in a pub, on a bicycle ride. I may or may not ask permission to take their photo; it depends on the situation and the moment. I’m very open about carrying my camera in circumstances like this; I’m not trying to conceal what I’m doing, but at the same time I don’t try to draw attention to myself.
“Oh? You want a photo?”
Occasionally I’ll see somebody who, for one reason or another, interests me and I’ll stop them and ask if I can take their photo. Occasionally, they’ll say no; sometimes because they’re in a hurry, sometimes because they’re shy, sometimes for reasons they don’t articulate. If they say no, I just thank them and go on my way.
But most people say yes. Like this guy, John, who was waiting for a bus. Most people are friendly. They may ask, “Why do you want to take my picture?” and if they do, I tell them. I told John I liked his mustache and his hat. I don’t always ask their name, but I always thank them and show them the photo. Nobody has ever asked me to delete their photo.
John, waiting for the bus.
I DO NOT take photos of marginalized people in states of distress. I confess, I’m occasionally tempted to shoot those sorts of photos. Suffering is part of the human condition, after all, and I think if it’s done with compassion, such photos can have merit. But they can also just be cheap exploitation. And frankly, the viewer can’t know the photographer’s purpose by looking at the photo. The photo is what it is.
Having just said that I don’t take photos of folks experiencing hardship, I’m now going to admit I actually DID take one a couple of weeks ago. I was walking down a city street and came across a man who was stumbling along, leaning against a containment wall of a landscaped office building. As I got closer it became clear he was extremely intoxicated. I asked him if he was okay. He kind of wobbled his head; I couldn’t tell if he was shaking his head ‘no’ or if he was nodding. He said, “I just need to lay down for a bit, I just need to rest, to sleep.” He said that two or three times.
And he did just that. He climbed up on the containment wall, laid his head on his arm, and closed his eyes. I don’t know if he went to sleep or if he just passed out. I stood there for a very long moment, uncomfortable about leaving him and equally uncomfortable about staying with him. The look of misery and exhaustion never left his face. But there was something almost delicate about his relaxed hands.
I very much wanted to photograph him. And I was ashamed of wanting that. In the end, after a minute or so, I took the photo and left. Was it an ethical violation of his privacy in moment of vulnerability? Yes, without a doubt. But I did it anyway.
It’s a good photograph. Not a great one, but good. t’s an honest one. I like it and I hate it. I haven’t shown it to anybody. I discussed the entire incident with my partner and told her about the photo; she was rightly troubled by my behavior. So am I.
Like a few million other folks, I showed up at the local No Kings protest. We were all there for the same fundamental reason: because Comrade Donald Trump and his cadre of Nazgûl have been merrily shitting on…well, everything that’s good and promising and hopeful and decent about the US.
Fuck Trump.
People are pissed off about SO MANY things Trump has done (and intends to do). The attacks on immigration, science, trans rights, healthcare, civil liberties, the environment, due process, Gaza (and Israel and Iran and and and), veteran’s benefits, free speech, the national debt, the January 6th pardons, everything about January 6th, the assault on education, the assault on libraries, the assault on the very concept of Truth.
No, really, fuck Trump.
But one thread tied all the anger and frustration and resentment together. A deep, abiding rage against Donald Trump as a person. Not only for the horrors he’s inflicted on the United States, but a profound loathing for him as an individual. As I wandered through the No Kings crowd, I kept seeing this same sentiment. Fuck Trump.
Also? Fuck Trump.
People really hate this motherfucker and they hate him personally. They hate him for what he’s done, they hate him for what he wants to do, and they hate for him who he is. Which, I suppose, is only fair, considering how many people he hates for who they are. Trump has a singular talent for both hating others and being hated.
Seriously, fuck that guy.
Why do people hate him so? Because he’s a liar, because he buried one of his many wives on a goddamn golf course, because he’s betrayed the United States, because he’s got truly godawful taste in everything, because he’s cheated on every wife he’s had, because he’s massively ignorant and unaware of it, because he’s a liar, because he’s fucked over every person and contractor he’s ever worked with, because he’s an unrepentant racist, because he hates women, because he loves autocrats, because he’s a liar, because he’s a coward, because he’s never owned a pet, because he’s a narcissist, because he pretends to support the military but believes they’re losers, because he’s a liar, because of his stupid fucking red hats, because he’s a phony, because he’s put incompetent people in positions of power, because he insults everybody who disagrees with him, because he’s a vindictive prick, because he’s a liar, because he’s rude, because of his stupid fucking hair, because he encourages his followers to be violent, because he hates immigrants but hires them to work for his resorts, because he’s shit all over the Arts, because he’s a liar, because he’s cruel and enjoys inflicting harm on others, because he pretends to be a Christian without having an inkling of Christian charity, because he’s a sex pest, because he’s committed many many crimes but has never been held accountable for any of them, because the people who like him are all massive assholes, because he’s a fucking liar.
And the horse he rode in on.
I’m sure I’ve skipped a few dozen other reasons why people hate him. But I think you get the point. People sincerely hate Trump.
But there was another guy at the No Kings event. Bearded guy, dressed all in black, sitting on a granite railing. He was wearing a T-shirt that said “Hate Will Never Win.” I hope he’s right. I genuinely hope hate won’t win. But I also hope the hatred against Donald Trump will get people to stand up for themselves and for others. I hope it will get people to push back against his authoritarianism. I hope it will get people to vote. I hope it will get people to hold Trump accountable for all (or at least some) of the horrible things he’s done to this country.
Here’s one of those photography ethics things. I was sitting in a booth in a quintessential American lunch-car diner with my camera on the table. While looking at the menu, I heard the sound of stressed voices coming from across the diner. I glanced over, saw two women who I thought had a family resemblance staring at each other. The light was nice and the scene had some drama. What to do?
Mind your own business?
Turn your camera on the table and shoot a quick photo without looking?
Pick up your camera and photograph the situation?
Obviously, the most ethical thing to do is 1) Mind your own business. I had no idea what the situation was, it had nothing to do with me, and the two women involved would almost certainly prefer to be ignored.
But if you’ve ever practiced street photography–or if you’ve ever wanted to practice street photography–you know that people are often most interesting and most honest during emotionally charged moments. And those moments are almost always worth photographing. So some/many photographers would at least consider options 2 and 3.
You have to be a complete asshole to choose option 3; to pick up your camera and openly, deliberately invade their privacy. Option 3, however, has the dubious advantage of being honest and direct, whereas option 2 is, let’s face it, sort of underhanded. The thing about option 2–shooting without looking, without composing–is you’re allowing the fickle Gods of Photography determine if you get a decent shot or not. If the shot sucks, then it will get binned and nobody has to think about it.
If the result works as a photograph, then both options 2 and 3 set up a secondary ethics challenge: do you further violate the privacy of these two women by posting it? If you choose to post it, do you post it on a very public social media platform (like, say, BlueSky or Instagram) or on a significantly less popular platform (like, say, your blog)?
Obviously, I chose option 2. Well, sort of. I mean, it’s not like I sat there and considered all the ethical questions. I took the photograph without considering anything at all, completely unhindered by any thought process. I turned the camera on, turned it toward their table, touched the shutter release, turned the camera off, and didn’t think about it again until I got home and looked at my photos.
And hey, I got lucky. It’s a pretty good shot (in my opinion).
This is the shot in question.
Obviously, I decided to post the photos here, on my personal blog. I’ll also post links to the blog on Facebook and BlueSky. How do I justify this? I’m relying on the Men in Black defense. If you’re in a public place: don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing. If you raise voices in a public setting, the public will look at you. Sure, few of them will take your photo, but a photograph is essentially nothing more than an extended look. You don’t have a reasonable expectation of privacy in a public setting.
Another thing: I’ve no idea what these women were talking about. I don’t know if they were arguing, if they were upset with each other or with something else, if their distress was sincere or in jest, if one was distressed and the other wasn’t. I don’t know because I didn’t pay any attention to them (other than to note their voices were momentarily raised). They could have been outraged by the portions or the size of their bill, for all I know.
That said, it’s important (to me, at any rate) not to fully absolve myself. The women may not have had a reasonable expectation of privacy while talking to each other in a very public diner, but I didn’t have to pay attention to them. While I didn’t make any effort to take a good photograph, the fact remains that by taking any photograph I invaded what they probably thought of as a private moment.
Was it worth it? I don’t know. I think it’s an interesting photograph. The chance that either of them will ever see this…or that anybody they know will ever see this…are incredibly slim. I could probably legitimately make the ‘No harm, no foul’ argument. But maybe this type of photography is a social harm in and of itself. I don’t know.
Here’s the thing: I spent several years as a private investigator. Much of my work (which was primarily criminal defense investigation) involved making ethical decisions in the immediate moment–and there was rarely any obviously correct decision in those moments. So I’m used to questioning my ethics. It’s easier with photography. With photography, you can always take the shot and delete it later IF you decide it was inappropriate or unethical. In photography, you have that leeway.
Looking at the photo, I don’t think the level of tension between the two women is terribly obvious–unless you’re looking for it. I don’t think there’s any ethical reason NOT to publish it. Others may disagree, but I’m comfortable with my decision.
I’m at the Christkindlmarket and I see this guy and his dog sitting at a table. He’s holding the dog and the dog is leaning against him. I know it sounds ridiculous, but the moment I saw them I thought, “Madonna and child.” I blame all the Christmas stuff for that. I’m not a Christian, but I’m a fan of any holiday that’s (supposed to be) about love and sharing.
Anyway, I’ve got my little Ricoh GR3X in hand as I approach them, and the guy knows why I’m coming. I could see it on his face, the recognition that I wanted to photograph his dog. And it obviously pleased him. I barely got the words out…”Would you mind if I…?” before he said, “Sure.”
The dog, though, seemed a tad uncertain, so I slowed down. Instead of the close-up I’d intended, I stayed back a bit. Instead of shifting my position to isolate the guy and his dog from other people from the frame, I stayed still. Instead of shooting 3-4 frames, I took only one. I moved slowly to take the photo.
I said something like, “He’s a wee bit shy, isn’t he.” The guy said the dog was timid around other people, which is why he’d brought him to the Christkindlmarket and why he was holding him. He wanted the dog to feel safe and protected, but he also wanted him to get used to being around other people.
I didn’t even try to pet the dog, though I wanted to. I didn’t try to shoot more photos of them, though I very much wanted to. I figured the little guy was dealing with enough already.
In the end I said something like, “You’ve got yourself a little buddy.” He said, “I sure do.” And I walked away. But seeing them together lifted my spirits–which, given the world as it is today, was quite a feat. The obvious bond between them, the care the guy was taking with the dog, the trust the dog had in the guy — it was lovely, and I was weirdly proud of them both.
I could have taken a better photograph of them. They deserve a better photo. But it might have made the dog nervous, and no photo would be worth that.
gregfallis.com 