Life at My Feet: Mimi, My Studio Companion
She sleeps at my feet while ideas take shape — a quiet, constant presence reminding me that rest, creativity, and companionship belong together.
Creativity in progress, with Mimi relaxing and keeping watch.
She arrived in our lives in 2017, already three and a half years old, and somehow it felt as though she had simply been waiting for us to catch up.
The day we adopted Mimi, something quietly settled. There was no dramatic moment, no fireworks — just the unmistakable feeling of joy and that our family was now complete. As if a final piece had been placed gently into position, exactly where it belonged.
Mimi is a white Bull Terrier, though “dog” feels like an insufficient word for her. She is presence. She is weight at my feet. She is warmth pressed against my leg while I work, and a steady, silent companion who asks for nothing but closeness (and snacks!).
Proof that Mimi can fall asleep anywhere, in any position, regardless of physics or practicality.
Her favourite pastime is sleep. I am convinced she holds some kind of international record. If there were medals awarded for napping — gold, silver, and bronze would all be hers. And yet, every single day, without fail, she surprises us with sudden bursts of energy. Zoomies erupt out of nowhere, her solid little body propelling itself around the house with joyful abandon, as if to remind us that life is still very much happening.
Mimi moved with us from New Zealand to Australia as though changing countries was a minor inconvenience. She took it all in stride — a new land, new light, new smells — and promptly found the best sunny spots as if she’d lived here forever. Even on the hottest days, she will locate a sliver of sunlight and place herself directly in it, eyes closed, soaking it in like a solar-powered being.
Mimi’s favourite places to pause — from sun-soaked floors to laundry baskets and quiet corners of the studio.
In my workroom, she prefers silence. No music, no unnecessary noise — just the quiet hum of making. She stays close, often pressed against or directly on top of my feet, anchoring me in place. Occasionally she lifts her head to check in, a brief glance that says, I’m here, before sinking back into sleep. There is comfort in that constancy — in knowing I am not alone during the long stretches of focused work.
As the years have passed, walkies have become shorter and slower. We don’t go as far as we used to, but she still loves the beach, still delights in exploring new places, nose working overtime, curiosity intact. Time has softened her pace, not her spirit.
Evenings at the beach — Mimi moving slowly through the shallows as the day softens into night.
At home, Mimi believes — with absolute conviction — that every chair and couch belongs to her. Personal space is not a concept she recognises. She will wedge herself against me, drape herself across laps, or curl into places that seem physically impossible. Her sleeping positions are endlessly entertaining: upside down, folded in half, buried completely under a blanket (often getting stuck), or sprawled on top of freshly washed laundry in the basket as though it were custom-made for her comfort.
Her dreams are vivid. You can see them playing out — paws twitching, muffled barks, tail wagging furiously against invisible worlds. I often wish I knew what she was dreaming. Perhaps she is running freely, or revisiting favourite beaches, or chasing something just out of reach. Whatever it is, it fills her completely.
Mimi at rest — wrapped in blankets, claiming the couch, and quietly perfecting the art of doing nothing.
Recently, during a particularly stressful time — long nights in the studio, deadlines stretching late — Mimi stayed by me constantly. It was as if she knew. No fuss, no demands. Just presence. Quiet, unwavering, deeply grounding. Loving, chilled, and unapologetically judgemental in the funniest way possible, she reminded me to breathe, to pause, to sit for a moment longer.
Mimi has spent countless days and nights beside my work, witnessing ideas come to life, watching pieces take shape. She has been there through exhaustion and excitement, through uncertainty and flow. She doesn’t care what I’m making, only that I’m there — and that she can be close.
Everyday moments with Mimi, quietly unfolding between home, garden, and studio.
She is part of my studio. Part of my rhythm. Part of the making.
And perhaps the greatest lesson she offers is this: that there is beauty in stillness, value in rest, and deep wisdom in simply being present — even, and especially, while the world is busy becoming something new.
“Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen.”
~ Orhan Pamuk