SDL Original | Collection
ID | SDL2025G0C11
Title | Leo the Yawning Lion
This album is a curated sequence of Leo’s yawns. Each image is tagged by location, timestamped, and captioned with care. The captions are short, poetic, and infused with the philosophy of feline presence. They are not just descriptions. They are tributes.
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Leo is a sleeping artist. A master of the unconscious pose. A creature who can fall asleep while already asleep—a recursive descent into dreamspace that defies logic and delights the soul. His sleeping is iconic, sometimes peculiar, often poetic. But this album is not about his sleeping per se. That’s for another collection.
This album is about yawning. And Leo’s yawns are not merely biological reflexes. They are social gestures. They are greetings, approvals, inspections, and sometimes, gentle protests. Leo is a social yawner. He yawns back when you yawn at him. He yawns when you make eye contact and open your mouth. He yawns to say hello, to say “I love you,” to say “I’m bored,” and to say “I trust you.” They are rituals. They are the glue of our bond. I yawn at him. He yawns back. We inspect each other’s mouths. We greet each other with open jaws. It’s our version of “give me five.” It’s “give me a yawn.” It’s “I see you.” It’s “I’m with you.”
These images are not candid snapshots. They are co-authored moments. They are artificially natural—prompted by a gesture, captured in a blink, and steeped in the quiet intimacy of a shared life. Leo and I have a shared interest, to save what we have, and that’s why also these moments are a part of our SDL InnerSpace—a project born from the need to preserve, to honor, to stay.
Just above the stairs, Leo yawns in the morning light. The bathroom door behind him, my office to the left, my bedroom to the right. He is the axis of my day. Stair yawn, high perch. Leo selects the step with perfect temperature and visibility. He yawns as I pass, a sleepy nod of recognition. “You may proceed,” he says, without moving. Leo stretches into twilight, his mouth wide with approval. He has been testing the pillows, judging his humans. Tonight, I have earned his favor. Leo yawns like a lullaby on one of his humans’, that is, his many beds. The light is soft, the moment sacred, the dreams sweet, and the magic is real. There are so many things about Leo that I cannot explain rationally. Leo is a magical creature. Here, Leo yawns in the New House, on the floor of the living room near the sunroom door, choosing the lowest altitude for thermal relief. His belly meets the cool tiles, his mouth opens to say, “It’s too hot, but I’m still fabulous.” Midnight yawn, one of his many bedrooms, in the Old House. Leo stretches into the quiet, his mouth wide with nocturnal poetry. The house sleeps, but he dreams deeper. Living room floor, coffee table nearby. Leo yawns in the heat, choosing the lowest altitude. The furniture beside him holds stories, to be told in SDL InnerSpace, but his yawn is the headline. Morning stair yawn. Leo chooses the perfect step for temperature and surveillance. I step over him with reverence. He yawns, I smile. The day begins. Stairs—white, spring light. Leo yawns as I descend, a sleepy sentinel. He knows my steps, my sighs, my rituals. His yawn is a nod: “I’m here. Proceed!” Sunroom, rattan chair. Leo yawns with elegance, framed by wicker and warmth. This is his throne of casual grace, his midday greeting to the world. Armchair yawn, old furniture. Leo stretches into the morning, claiming space with feline flair. The chair may be worn, but his presence makes it royal. 
Here Leo yawns in one of his many bedrooms in the Old House. It is like a lullaby, a soft protest against waking. The light is winter, the mood eternal. He sleeps beside me now, when no one else does. Stairway yawn, on the stairs, now painted white. Leo blocks the path with sleepy defiance. I pause, as always, to pay tribute. Under the rattan table in the sunroom, Leo yawns from the shadows. He loves warmth, but not light. This is his observatory, his quiet place. The yawn is a whisper to the world: “I see you, but I choose sleep.” Kitchen sofa, old textile. Leo yawns as the family watches TV. He’s part of the show, part of the tribe. His mouth opens not in boredom, but in belonging. Leo sprawls on the living room couch, mid-yawn, mid-reign. The furniture is his, the moment is ours. A casual stretch of sovereignty in the heart of the New House. On the stairs with their old original colors, Leo yawns like a gatekeeper of dreams. I tiptoe past, whispering “I love you, son,” as he remains unmoved. His yawn is both a welcome and a warning: this stair belongs to him. The crescendo. Leo’s yawn blooms in full glory, fangs and tongue on display. A sunroom salute, a high yawn of approval. This is how we greet each other—mouths wide, hearts open. Sunroom royalty. Leo sits poised, regal, preparing his yawn like a trumpet call. This is the overture—his mouth not yet open, but the gesture already underway. A social prompt received, a feline response loading. Leo yawns in my bed, in my room, in the old world. The morning light kisses his whiskers as he stretches into consciousness. A yawn not of fatigue, but of trust—his way of saying, “I slept well beside you.”
