Why Pet Portraits Matter: Rusty Rocket

Have you ever thought about creating a pet portrait? Now, how about doing it with a 4×5 camera—because nothing says “sit still” to an animal like a giant wooden box and a black cloth over your head. This is the story of a very special guy named Rusty and the portrait I captured of him on Polaroid Type 55 P/N 4×5 (P55) instant film one afternoon—a moment preserved in time, complete with the warmth, character, and slight unpredictability that made P55 such a memorable film.

Back when Polaroid was still producing its beloved P55, it was a favorite among large-format photographers, myself included. Of course, it wasn’t without its quirks—temperamental holders, chemical pod drama, and the occasional heart-stopping moment of “Did that actually work?” But when it did, the results were stunning. For dedicated 4×5 black-and-white shooters, it was the dream: shoot, see instant results, and walk away with a high-quality 4×5 negative for printing. For many fine art photographers, it wasn’t just film—it was an experience, complete with all the unpredictability and triumph that made large-format photography so rewarding.

When Polaroid announced its final sale, I stocked up on about a dozen boxes of P55. Today, my last remaining box sits in the humidity-controlled drawer of my refrigerator, with six frames left. I plan to shoot the rest in the studio this year. The last time I used a sheet was the previous year, and both the film and chemical pods performed fine. However, I won’t be purchasing any more P55 because it’s just too much of a financial risk not knowing exactly how it was stored.

With a background in studio portraiture, I dabbled in pet portraits, with an emphasis on dabble. And only because my well-to-do clients had me on retainer as their family photographer, which included their fur babies. Back in the film days, I used my trusty Hasselblad for the job. While I love animals, I never chased after pet portraiture as a career.

Cats? Absolute chaos. Herding squirrels might have been easier. Dogs? A delight—most of the time.

I once gave some students a foolproof business idea: find a woman who dyes her hair to match her poodle, knock it out of the park with a stunning portrait of them together, and watch the referrals roll in. She’d show her equally dog-obsessed friends and boom—instant clientele. Strangely, none of them took me seriously, but I know it could’ve been a goldmine!

Rusty Rocket

One ordinary day, in the middle of life’s routine, Rusty entered our world. It happened like this:

My son was in high school when Hurricane Katrina struck, followed just weeks later by Hurricane Wilma. We were living in Redland, Florida, at the time, and while New Orleans bore the worst of Katrina’s wrath, South Florida was not spared. Redland, Homestead, and South Miami took a fierce beating. We lost power and water for over 45 days—living in a rural area with a well meant that without electricity, we had no running water. Thankfully, we had access to a condo in Miami, which became our refuge for showers and a brief return to normalcy.

One afternoon, weeks after Wilma had torn through and left devastation in its wake, I picked up my son from school. On a whim, we took a detour to visit a favorite horse boarding ranch near our home. We often parked there for a while, watching the horses graze, enjoying a few quiet moments together. But that day, just off the side of the road, we spotted a small dog—skin and bones, looking like he had been through hell.

My son had a bag of tacos, so we stopped to see if the little guy would eat. He devoured them—paper and all. That was all it took. Without hesitation, he climbed into our car and, unknowingly, into our lives.

The next day, the vet confirmed what we already suspected—this dog had once belonged to someone but had suffered terrible neglect. The lacerations around his neck suggested he’d been tied up and somehow broken free, likely from one of the many commercial plant nurseries in the area. He was covered in wounds, severely malnourished, and his eyes held the kind of fear that only comes from deep, lasting trauma. Somehow, he had survived the hurricanes—probably tied up, abandoned, left to fend for himself—until hunger and desperation drove him to wander the rural roads skirting the treacherous expanse of the Everglades in search of food.

He had been through so much. But from that moment on, he would never have to endure alone.

Rusty was a quiet soul, his demeanor weighed down by the sorrow of abandonment. In my heart, I wrote his poetry, trying to unravel the silent story he carried. As a photographer, I felt compelled to capture his essence—his presence, his journey.

Rusty never barked—but he had a signature woooo whenever the cat strolled by. He spoke in other ways.

More than anything, he loved car rides. I took him with me every chance I could—on landscape shoots, scouting trips, or just errands. Though I had four other dogs, Rusty was the one I always chose to have by my side. There was an unspoken understanding between us.

His nickname, Rusty Rocket, came from the sudden bursts of energy that overtook him whenever our cat, Jellybean, walked past. Despite his usual stillness, something about that cat sent him into motion—like a rusty old rocket launching into the air.

I have no doubt that I gave Rusty the best years of his life, and I miss him every day. We shared twelve years, and he gave more than he ever took—a true gift. There was always a quiet sadness in him, as if old memories lingered just beneath the surface. His nightmares were frequent, more than I’d ever seen in any animal. But through it all, he had me. And he knew I would always be there for him.

When the time came to make his portrait, he understood. He sat patiently, completely still, as if he knew this moment mattered—something he was giving to me. That image, now preserved forever, is a memory I hold with love and tenderness.

Rusty spent his life trying to be the best dog a person could have. He gave me his quiet loyalty, his steady companionship, and a trust that took time to build. And I knew it. More importantly, he knew that I knew it. That understanding between us was silent but unbreakable—a bond built not on words, but on the steady, unwavering presence of love.

This is why some pet owners seek a portrait of their beloved companion—not just as a keepsake, but as a way to honor the life they shared, the memories made, and the unconditional love that never fades.

The Shoot

I honestly can’t remember whether I used my Ebony or Arca Swiss 4×5 for Rusty’s portrait, as I was actively shooting with both at the time. But I’m going with the Arca Swiss because I know I used the Cooke PS945 lens, and if memory serves me right, that lens, with its Copal 3 shutter, was a bit of a beast for the small wooden Ebony. So let’s call it the Arca Swiss 4×5 Field Compact—not that it really matters since they both shoot the same way.

Rusty barely fit on the wooden stool I had him sit on, and given his deep-seated fear of thunder and lightning, I opted not to use my studio strobes but instead used a rear porch wall and available daylight. So what you see is what you get. The aperture was wide open, with the focus locked on his eyes, which naturally meant that his longish snout drifted softly out of focus at the tip. But that was a small price to pay for such a soulful portrait.

And here’s the thing—I’m the customer here. I know what it took to create this image.

I took only three shots, and this one—the first—was my favorite. Afterward, Rusty and I jumped into my vehicle, rolled the windows down, and took off for a ride, him sporting his Doggles like the cool dude he was. He may have been a tough little survivor, but for me, he was always a mama’s boy.

Technical Notes

I store my Polaroid film in the refrigerator drawers—never freeze instant film! In preparation for Rusty’s portrait session, I placed a few sheets of P55 on the kitchen counter for about 30 minutes to warm up. Once they reached room temperature, I brought them into the shooting area to load into the Polaroid film holder. I kept the remaining sheets close by because, when photographing an animal or a child, I’ve learned always to be ready for a fast-paced shoot.

The session was uneventful and over quickly—Rusty was incredibly cooperative, which I never took for granted.

The film developed just fine after being released from the holder and processed. I shot three sheets and felt confident I had what I wanted.

Back in the sink area, I had a Perma Wash mix prepared to remove the purple stain from the negatives. Once thoroughly cleaned and dried, I stored them in Print File sheets for archival preservation. Today, those negatives are as good as they were when I created them in 2006.

If I had it to do over again, I would have taken the time to try brushing Rusty. He never liked being touched much, and he always went to a professional groomer for baths. Unfortunately, because of his trauma, he had to be muzzled during grooming—being brushed, picked up, or bathed was overwhelming for him. He trusted me, but I was always careful, reading his eyes to gauge his comfort. I likely brushed him a little before the shoot, but not as much as I would have liked.

I posted this image of Rusty shortly after I created it on an online forum. At the time, it had the Polaroid frame around it—because that was the cool thing back then. These days, I prefer it cropped out.

Closing Comments

Rusty’s portrait is more than just an image—it’s a testament to resilience, trust, and the unspoken bond between a human and their dog. Whether using Polaroid Type 55 film or any other medium, a pet’s portrait captures the love and companionship they bring into our lives; these images become cherished memories, preserving the spirit of our beloved animals long after they’re gone.

If you’re considering a portrait of your pet, remember that it’s not about technical perfection—it’s about capturing their essence. And if you ever have the chance to give a rescued animal a loving home, know that they will, in return, give you a lifetime of quiet gratitude.