why these exist

I didn’t start this because I wanted to sell dog collars.

I started it because I needed somewhere to put the part of me that notices things most people don’t — line weight, how leather softens, whether an engraving will still read after years of being handled, how an object feels in your hand after you’ve picked it up every day.

I’m not interested in decoration.

I’m interested in objects that live with you.

Dogs made that make sense.

A collar doesn’t sit on a shelf. It goes everywhere — morning routines, car rides, muddy walks, waiting by the door, laying on the floor while you cook, the quiet sound of tags moving in the house at night. After a while you stop really seeing it. It just becomes part of them.

Most things we buy are temporary.

A dog never is.

Without noticing it, your life arranges itself around another living being. I wanted to make something that belonged in that relationship.

The pieces begin as drawings, but they aren’t meant to stay artwork. They’re meant to be lived in — worn every day, softened by time, shaped by routine. Scratches and darkening leather aren’t damage. They’re evidence.

Over time a collar becomes familiar in a strange way. You know the weight of it. You could probably find it in the dark. It stops being an accessory and becomes tied to a specific animal and a specific life.

A factory can produce a product.

It can’t make something meant to follow one individual life.

So I make them one at a time.

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In a way, every collar starts as a blank record.

Then life fills it in.

My goal isn’t just to make something beautiful at the beginning.

It’s to make something that stays meaningful because of what happens while it’s worn.