People chide me often for naming some of my animals, taking colorful photos of them, telling stories about them, and then seeing surprised or taken back by the strong emotions they provoke when they die, are put down, sent away or are hurt. These observations are completely true and correct, and I have often acknowledged their truth and I do so again. The emotional life of almost any human who really loves animals is something of a roller coaster, requiring observation, self-awareness and perspective. There is no fixed point, no stable place, no constant.
I am very careful about the animals I name and love. When you name an animal, the context changes. I generally don’t name sheep, and I have always been careful not to attach too much importance to the life of a chicken. If you love a chicken, you will know trouble, as they are as dumb as bricks and many different kinds of animals – humans included – love to eat them. Chickens are defenceless, myopic, almost suicidally oblivious to danger, prone to panic and hysteria. Chicken Little gets it just right.
I always said of Meg that curious and adventurous chickens don’t live long, and that was nearly proven again this morning by my new friend, the red fox. Being a photographer complicates things, because any photographer comes to love his subjects. The act of photographing people or animals is an intimate thing in itself. You crawl around taking photos of a creature day after day and you will attach to it big-time. And I am affected by the stories I tell about animals as much as anyone else. Perhaps more. They are a projection of me, my emotional life, my imagination, my love and emotions. I can’t separate them from me.
It changes things when a predator like a fox comes around and attacks animals you are responsible for. This has never happened on my farm, and I began to think I had some magical protection from it. The story of foxes and chickens is well known to anyone in rural life, or anyone with a farm. They come and kill. It happens so often it is not news around here. Everybody has their own story, each worse than the next.
Still, it is an invasion, an intrusion. It is disturbing. Things are not the same. I feel deeply responsible for the animals in my care, and so does Maria. It is different after today. I will not ever be quite as casual about where the cats and chickens are, how they sleep. If I get a clear shot at the fox and if he comes close to the barns again and I am there, I will kill him, even though he is doing nothing wrong, just being a fox. He has to feed his family too. I have to protect mine.
It was an emotional day for me, for sure. I was crushed when I thought the chickens were dead, especially Meg, who I have named the Hen Of Entitlement and crawled through mud and ice and manure and barns and hay feeders to photograph. So was Maria. We nearly danced for joy when we found that they were alive. Do I love them like a dog or as much? I don’t think so. If Izzy had been eaten by a wolf, I would have been profoundly affected and in a deeper way I think. But does it matter? I love all of the things in my care. I hope I do not love them equally and indiscriminately and that would diminish my feelings for them.
As I’ve often written, I believe the real lives of animals is very different from that of humans, as much as we might not want to admit it. Seconds after the fox attach, feathers floating everywhere, the donkeys were munching their hay, the dogs were dozing in the sun, the animal world had blinked, yawned and moved on. Death does not shock them as it does us. It is part of life for them. And that is the emotional challenge for me, really. I think like a human, not a chicken. Or a dog or donkey.
They are not like us. They are not like us. They are not like us.