Photos to take before your pet dies

Take far more than feels natural

There's no such thing as too many. You will not sit down in a year and think you overdid it. The photos you have of them are almost all the same photo - across the room, standing up, looking at the camera - and that is not what you will want later.

Set yourself a low bar: a few every day between now and then, in whatever they're already doing. You don't have to look at any of them yet. Most people can't for months. Just have them.

The shot list

Their paws. Top and bottom, the pads, the fur between the toes. This is the single most requested photo people find they don't have.

Their face, filling the frame. Not the polite portrait from four feet away - close enough to see the grey around the muzzle, the notch in the ear, the whiskers, the eyelashes.

The specific way they lie down. One leg stuck out, the curl, the corner of the couch with the dent in it. That shape is more them than any posed photo.

Their nose, their ears, the pattern on their back, the one crooked tooth. The bits you'd recognise anywhere and have never once photographed.

Your hand on them. Their paw in your palm, their head on your knee, the size of them against you.

Where they sleep, and their things - the collar on the hook, the chewed toy, the bowl, the bed. Photograph these now, because afterwards these objects become unbearable and most people put them away fast.

Get in the photo yourself

Almost every photo you own is of them alone, because you were the one holding the phone for eleven years. Afterwards, the photos of the two of you together are the ones that matter most, and there are usually about four.

Hand your phone to someone else. Prop it against a mug and use the timer. It does not need to be a good photo - it needs to have both of you in it.

Take video, with the sound on

This is the one nobody thinks to make. A memory of a face lasts far longer than a memory of a voice - the sound of them is what goes first, and it goes completely.

So record it. Their sigh as they settle. The tags on their collar down the hallway. The noise they make getting up off the floor. Their name being called and their head coming up. Fifteen seconds each is plenty.

Also record yourself talking to them, in the voice you actually use with them. Nobody wants to do this and everybody is glad they did.

You don't need a good camera

Phone photos are what these are made of. Two things do most of the work: get down on the floor so the camera is level with their eyes instead of above their head, and turn the flash off - soft light from a window is kinder and it keeps their eyes looking like their eyes.

A slightly blurry, badly lit, real photo beats a careful one every time. If you want the longer version, we wrote one: how to take good photos of your pet with just a phone.

Write down the things a photo can't hold

The specifics fade first, and faster than people expect. Not the big things - those stay - but the small ones: the sound they made getting up, the thing they did every single time you picked up your keys, the nickname that made no sense and stuck for eleven years.

A few sentences in your notes app is enough. It takes five minutes and it turns out to be the hardest thing to reconstruct later.

What happens to all of it afterwards

Honestly? For most people it sits untouched. The photos land back in the camera roll, scattered and unsorted, and opening that folder is hard enough that months go by. That's normal, and there's no schedule you're meant to keep.

When you are ready - and it might be weeks - the thing that helps is giving all of it one place to live instead of a folder you avoid. Some people print one photo and frame it. Some make a photo book. Some plant something.

What we make is a short narrated tribute: you send ten or so of these photos and a few honest sentences about who they were, and it comes back as a video in a warm voice, telling their story over their own pictures. Your material and your words - nothing generated, nothing invented, no wings and no halos. But the point isn't which one you pick. It's that the photos you're taking this week end up somewhere.

If this feels wrong to be doing

A lot of people describe feeling like taking photos now is giving up on them, or filming a funeral in advance. That's a real feeling and it passes on its own.

What's actually happening is simpler: you're paying close attention to them while they're here. That is the opposite of giving up. And the version of you in a year has no way to go back and do it.

Common questions

How many photos should I be taking?

More than feels reasonable. For a tribute, ten to fifteen is the sweet spot - but that's ten to fifteen chosen from hundreds, so take hundreds. Nobody has ever regretted the extra ones.

Is the list different for a dog and a cat?

Barely. A dog's paws, muzzle and collar are the shots people miss; for a cat it's the paw pads, the whiskers, the tail, and the exact windowsill or lap they claimed. The two that matter most are the same either way: get in the photo with them, and take video with the sound on.

Should I book a professional photo session?

Some people do, and there are photographers who specialise in exactly this. It's lovely if you have the money and the energy. It is not necessary, and a rushed session can eat a day you'd rather spend on the floor with them. Phone photos taken over a quiet week usually capture more of who they were.

Can I include video clips, not just photos?

Yes, and they're worth including - a few seconds of them moving, or of their name being called, changes the whole thing.

Do you change or generate images of my pet?

No. We use the photos you send, as they are - no generated faces, nothing added, nothing invented. An approximation of a face you loved is the one thing nobody wants.