He doesn't bark. He breathes on whichever face is nearest, until that person gives up.
A book about the life your dog, cat or pet actually lives
The socks they steal. The spot they sleep. The sound that makes them run. A book of all of it.
He doesn't bark. He breathes on whichever face is nearest, until that person gives up.
The socks they steal. The spot they sleep. The sound that makes them run. A book of all of it.
Made from nine photos and seven answers, in about ten minutes. 28 pages, 20 × 20 cm.

The Cheese Drawer
Not the fridge door. The drawer. Max can be asleep two rooms away, gone entirely, and still he is beside you before it is fully open. Nobody has explained how he knows the difference between a door and a drawer, but he does, every time. The word 'garden' works too, said in any sentence, about anything.

Thursday Morning
Every Thursday, for ten years, the wheelie bin goes out, and every Thursday Max treats it like a stranger. He gives it a wide berth, walks the long way round, and looks back over and over to check that it isn't following him. By Friday it is just the bin again. Then Thursday comes back around.



Half past seven, and Max is still at the fence, waiting for a crust nobody admits to. The red blanket is still on the rug, pulled off the sofa by morning. Bas and Femke still check the sock basket on washing day and come up one short. Noor still reads to him on the rug, his head heavy on her leg. Otto still denies the whole thing.









Kooikerhondje, born 2016. Still walks round the wheelie bin on Thursdays.
Made from nine photos and seven answers, in about ten minutes. 28 pages, 20 × 20 cm.

Leaves in a Row
In sixteen years, never a mouse. Instead, leaves, carried in one at a time and laid on the doormat in a row, like something delivered on purpose. Once it was a whole slice of bread, taken from the neighbours' bird table and carried home dry, set down with the same quiet ceremony as the leaves before it.




Every High Place
Any box was hers the moment it arrived, claimed before it was even empty. Failing that, the top of the bookcase, where she could see the whole room and nobody could reach her. And in the kitchen, the yellow chair, hers alone since about 2012, when the household quietly gave up sitting in it. Boxes, shelves, chairs: she claimed the whole house, one calm decision at a time, and never had to ask twice.
An Hour Like That
She fell asleep on the window sill and slid off it very slowly, landing on Rufus, who was asleep underneath. Neither of them woke up. They stayed like that for a whole hour, the dog and the cat, arranged by gravity rather than by choice, and nobody in the house dared to move them.

Between the cookbooks, on the yellow chair, on the top of the bookcase until she was fifteen: Luna picked her spots and the house arranged itself around them. Madeleine and Tom still glance at the top of the cat tree sometimes, half expecting to find her there, chosen and unreachable, exactly as she liked it.









Luna, 2009 – 2025. Any box, always.
The book on screen and as a PDF. €6.99, paid after the questions.
20 × 20 cm, 28 pages, hard cover. €24.99 plus €4.95 shipping.
The hardcover cannot be ordered right now. It is back in about two weeks.
The questions are about ordinary things: where they sleep, what they steal, the sound that makes them run. Short answers are enough, and you can skip any question. The more you tell, the more it sounds like them.
The words are drafted from your answers by an AI model working under a fixed brief: nothing invented, no clichés. You read and change every line before anything is printed.
Yes. Every page can be changed. Edit the words, rewrite a page with a note, swap a photo, swap a photo for a drawing, draw an illustration again.
One is enough. Up to fourteen fit, large in the book. Where there are fewer photos, we draw your pet instead.
Yes. The book page makes a share link. Anyone with it reads the whole book on their phone and cannot change it. You can stop the link at any time.
Yes. You need photos of their pet and the things only someone who knows the animal can tell. Afterwards you pass on the private link, and they can change any page themselves.
Yes. Write in the past tense and the book does the same. It stays a book about what they did, not about the end.
They are used to make your book and deleted a year after it is ready. Two mails come before then, and one click keeps the book another year. Nothing else.
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