Keeping company

I’ve been thinking about the Rock Dogs again.

It usually starts without much planning. A lump of clay. A full cup of hot tea and a positive playlist or podcast cued up. Before long, I’ve got an assembly line of mugs, plant pots, pet bowls, and orbs with small nubby feet, all waiting for their own smile, smirk, or charming expression. At some point, I stop trying to steer things and the clay takes over. One eye a little lower than the other becomes a curious critter. One ear higher than the other turns into something playful. As the hours fly by and the tea runs out, I’m left surrounded by new faces looking back at me. Those are the Rock Dogs days, and they bring me the most joy.

When Rock Dogs first came into the world, I didn’t think of them as a “line.” They were just small clay companions that made me laugh while I was making them. Over time, other people started responding to that too. That part still fills me with gratitude.

All of this work is handmade, though the process shifts depending on what I’m making. When I try to control every part of it, things slow down. When I relax and enjoy the process, these little companions start showing up on their own. Before long, the studio fills up. Shelves get crowded. Every surface has something smiling back at me, all waiting their turn for the bisque fire.

At that point, it feels less like I’m deciding what to make and more like I’m responsible for bringing these little beings to life. Each one needs its own glaze, a bit of care to make sure everything looks right, and then the final firing. It’s slightly ridiculous, honestly, and I still feel excited for the big reveal every time. One day, each of these will end up somewhere new. On someone’s desk. On a shelf in a dorm somewhere. At a loving home or out in a garden. A small presence that makes someone smile when they least expect it. That feels like enough reason for me to keep going.

Even though these lean toward whimsy, I’m still thinking like a potter. Clay bodies. Glaze fit. Weight. How the piece feels in your hands, even if it mostly keeps you company. I want them to sit comfortably alongside functional pieces, not feel out of place.

They ask for nothing and never need you to be a certain way. They’re just there with you. On the desk, on the shelf, nearby when you need a smile. A small, steady presence that makes the day feel lighter.

Some of these pieces will feel familiar. Others are new and still sorting themselves out. I’m giving them the space they need.

This feels like a good place to set this down and see where things go.