Our Story
This Is Zhuang Zhuang
The little dog who taught me what it means to hold on.
壮壮 — her name means "Strong" in Chinese
She Chose Me
I didn't plan on getting a dog that day. I was just out running errands when I noticed her—this scruffy little thing, trailing behind me. At first, I thought she was just wandering. But after a few blocks, I realized she wasn't going anywhere. She was following me.
I got to my car. Opened the door. She sat down and waited. Just stared at me with those big eyes like she'd made up her mind already. That was it. I couldn't leave her there.
That was almost ten years ago. Ten years of mornings where she'd follow me from room to room. Ten years of her curling up next to me, always touching, always close.
The Hard Years
Zhuang Zhuang went through hell. Serious medical challenges. Seizures. Surgery. The vet told me she might have six months left.
She lived for two more years.
Not because she was supposed to. Because she was stubborn. Because she wasn't ready to leave yet. That's who she was—tough as nails, wrapped in soft fur.
She never barked. Not once. Most of the time, she'd just lie there quietly like this, watching you with those bright, gentle eyes. Even when she was upset, she'd just walk away and lie in the corner. She didn't need words; her silence was her most soulful way of staying by my side.
A Real Personality
Zhuang Zhuang was a person in a poodle's body. When she first met my baby, she nudged her way in, fiercely jealous of the new arrival. But watching them grow up together was the most beautiful part of our story. The jealous little dog became the baby's most loyal companion, guiding her through the sun-dappled sidewalks we walked every day.
She wasn't just a witness to our lives; she was the warmth that held us all together.
Why I Started Making These
When Zhuang Zhuang passed, I didn't want to let go. I know that sounds impossible—you can't hold onto what's gone. But I needed something. Something I could touch. Something that felt like her.
So I taught myself leatherwork. I carved her face into a keychain, a wallet, a small pouch. I spent hours getting the details right—the curve of her ears, the softness in her eyes. It wasn't perfect. But it was hers. And it was something I could carry.
I chose leather because, like memory, it's meant to be touched. Each time you hold it, the warmth of your hand deepens its patina—that rich, lived-in glow. It ages with you, just as your bond deepened over the years.
My husband saw what I was doing and said, "Other people need this too." Together, we turned my grief into a way to help others hold onto what they love.
Every piece we make is hand-carved with the same care I put into hers.
Because I know what it's like to need something that lasts.
What I Learned About the Craft
After losing Zhuang Zhuang, I became obsessed with getting every detail right
Finding the Right Tools
To capture Zhuang Zhuang's gentle eyes, I tried every carving knife I could find. Some were too harsh, others too soft. It took months to understand which blade creates the softness I needed—the kind that makes you want to reach out and touch.
Why I Chose This Leather
I tested dozens of leathers before finding the one from Tuscany. It had to be vegetable-tanned—the kind that ages like a memory, developing that warm patina over time. When you hold it, it feels alive. That's what I wanted. Something that would age with you, just like your bond with them deepened over the years.
Every Face Is Different
I don't use templates. Each portrait starts from your photo and your story. I sketch, adjust, and carve until I see their spirit in the leather. Sometimes I redo an entire piece because the eyes don't feel right. This is why it takes time. Because I know what it's like to need something that truly captures who they were.
Ready to Preserve Your Companion's Memory?
Now accepting the first 20 commissions for our Launch Collection.
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