I’m not a photographer but these days I’m packin’ a camera like a TV cowpoke and his six-shooter. Of course this analogy only works if you watch 50’s reruns on The Western Channel or are older than dirt and have a thing about Little Joe and/or Marshall Dillon.

Which I’m not. And I don’t. Well, maybe Little Joe, just a little, back in the day. He had a cool horse. Mine was a stick. Had a sock head with a yarn mane. Best damn horse I ever had. Never once had to clean up his poo, unlike some other horses I know.

But back to the cameras. I never leave home without one. I’ve got three of ’em. Five if I count some early digitals gathering dust upstairs. Blows me away that the camera in my iPhone is way–I mean way–better than the one I Mr. Spouse spent big bucks on ten years ago. Not complaining, just wondering what George Eastman would think of all this.

The other day I was sitting with Studio Quat on the sofa swing in front of the studio. I had a camera in hand and started snapping pictures. Just playing. Then I decided to see how macro was macro on an older Canon Elph SD1000. Older being at least six years.

Here’s what I got.

Kind of fuzzy. Not great. Shows her age, which in cat years is life # 8.5 . She was only mildly interested in what I was doing as it didn’t involve food. Or scratchy fingers.

So I moved in a little closer.

And closer.

The question was how close could I move in before she got pissed off. Because  I was, like, right in her face.

At least this close.

And that was about it. Maybe I could’ve gotten closer but LOOK at those eyes…. You think  she was telling me something?

No details on the camera. Just disable the flash, put it in macro then point and shoot. And be extra considerate of your subject when you’re so into their space. Especially when they have claws. And they know how to use them.