Squidward was never meant to be heroic. He wasn’t sleek or expensive, didn’t boast specs or branding worth mentioning. He was six inches tall, rubber-legged, and vaguely octopus-like, with joints that clicked softly when you bent them into place. He lived most of his life stuffed into my backpack or riding unnoticed in the back pocket of my jeans. And yet, for nearly two years, he showed up every time I asked.

When the Canon stayed home—too heavy, too much trouble—Squidward stepped in without complaint. A rock by the river. A guardrail slick with mist. A crooked fence post near a trailhead. He wrapped himself around whatever the world offered and held fast. Patient. Steady. Unassuming.

He bore witness to waterfalls most of all. Squidward never flinched at spray soaking his legs or cold seeping into his joints. He stood there, quietly doing his job, while moments passed through the lens and became something worth keeping.

In 2025, his service ended. A joint gave way. A leg broke loose. There was no ceremony—just a realization that something small but reliable was suddenly gone.

This is for Squidward: a humble tool that helped turn pauses into memories, movement into stillness, and fleeting moments into proof that I was there. You were never just a tripod. You were a companion in the margins, and your quiet service mattered more than you’ll ever know.