We’ve put animals down three times in this endless winter, and I admit it has become somewhat ritualistic. We go to a waiting room, we sign papers (Frieda will be cremated, we want the ashes only, not the candles or snips of hair), the vet explains that she will give two shots, one a sedative, the other a lethal injection. Frieda, anxious and difficult around vets, is weak and disoriented. Maria holds Frieda’s head, I hold Maria’s hand.
The vet comes in, gives Frieda a sedative in her rear leg, then the vet leaves so that the sedative can work and so that Maria and I can say our farewells. We each talk to Frieda, kiss her on her forehead, say goodbye, thank her. I love Frieda, but this is Maria’s dog, really, and my role is support Maria. She is strong and clear, she is certain it is time, certain Frieda is ready to go. Suzanne Fariello, the vet, agrees, she makes sure we know she is comfortable with the decision.
We know the drill, we all do.
Suzanne is sympathetic and understanding, she is also professional. She does this every day, there is something comforting in that. Cassandra, her assistant, helps. Suzanne does this procedure with the dog on the floor, so that we can hold her and so that she is spared the anxiety and distress of being up on a table.
The sedative works quickly, as it did with Simon and with Lenore. Maria and I are shocked, seeing Frieda lie there, at how thin she has become, how dry and matted her fur is, how different she looks than just a few months ago.
Frieda wobbles and then lies down Her eyes are open, she seems barely conscious. Maria rests her forehead against her, the two of them talk in their timeless way. We all put our hands on her, hold her, we send her on her way. Then the vet comes in, she inserts a catheter in Frieda’s leg – she wants the injection to be fast and secure for all of our sakes – and in a minute, Frieda is gone. It is a quick and painless procedure, blessedly efficient.
There is a sense of release and relief. Suzanne check’s Frieda’s heartbeat with her stethoscope. “She’s gone,” she says. We talk about the cremation arrangements, we will be billed in the mail, everybody hugs and we leave. Maria, for the first time in many years, is without Frieda, her companion, protector and art studio dog.
“She was ready,” Maria says. I agree. We are at peace with the decision, we are relieved to have spared her further suffering. We can’t do this for human beings, but we can do it for dogs and horses and animals.
Frieda is a spirit dog, she entered Maria’s life for a reason, she left when she was done. She has moved on, glory to her.
There is always an issue of privacy when an animal dies. We are both private people, even though we share our lives. I always say I am not going to take any photos, but then I always do. First, because I am a journalist in my blood and I believe important events ought to be recorded.
And secondly, because it is part of being authentic.
Life with animals is a joyous adventure, but grief, loss and suffering are a part of it. In our world, we have emotionalized farms and animals – most people know nothing of the real lives of real animals, that’s why the carriage horses are in so much peril – and we hide from death and grief. I am determined not to do that, and a life with animals does not permit it. The purpose of photography is not just to take beautiful and endearing photos. Here, we live in the real lives of real animals, and animals often die. It seems dishonest, hypocritical for me to share one without the other.
Animals can lift us up, and knock us down when they die. I will not stay down in my life with animals, each one is a gift to me, and I am grateful for it. I will not make it into a misery because they do what animals do, and die sometimes.
Grief and life are close companions, I am committed to understanding – and sharing – what it means to be a human being. Frieda and Simon and Lenore have all taught me much about that.