Finality and Saying Goodbye
/Saying goodbye to your dog, especially your soul dog, is one of the hardest things one can do in this life. It’s a soul-crushing loss. So I don’t take it lightly when I am chosen to photograph your pet’s last moments, or moments while they’re still ok-ish after a devastating diagnosis. I feel the pain on a cellular level and I’ve gone through it myself. It’s life-altering and gut-punchy.
A dear client came to me last summer to photograph her pooch that had just been diagnosed with cancer. Five months later she reached out again for her other dog that was diagnosed with lymphoma. During this most recent session, the original dog from the summer was still alive. When our winter session happened, I naively thought this ‘new’ guy would be around in a couple months yet also. But he passed less than two weeks after our session and I’m still reeling. I thought he had more time.
When I get the news that they’ve crossed the rainbow bridge after our session, I cry and I feel that pain for days. I’m transported back to that day in my own experience. I wonder if you’re looking at the clock that first day without them, thinking how they were still here 24 hours ago. I wonder if you’ve left their food & water bowls out, if you’ve laid in their bed and sobbed uncontrollably, if you’ve not vacuumed the floors in ages in fear of sucking up all that’s left of them, if you sleep with one of their stuffed animals they used to carry around. Yes, I’ve done all of these things. I lost my favorite girl, Emmie Lou, almost a year ago and I still cry almost daily. So I truly get it. It’s why I try my hardest to really capture the relationship between you and your fur baby. Photos, and some of their things, are really all that’s left behind as proof that they were here, and they are (I refuse to say were; I believe they’re still with us somehow) so, so loved.
I always think “I thought he/she/they/we had more time.” Even with Em, especially with my dad who was only 67 when he ended his life. There is never enough time. Emmie was 3 months shy of 19 and it STILL wasn’t enough time. I don’t have human children but Emmie was my baby. 18.5 years of love and routine gone in an instant. It felt like I lost an entire part of me. I’m feeling all of the feels these days. I’m not sure if it’s because the one-year anniversary is approaching, or if my body is just remembering that a year ago it started to really sink in that my days with her were really numbered. And all of that is still stored inside of my body. Right after she passed, my mom sold our childhood home and it was gone in the blink of an eye. That home was Emmie’s favorite place on the planet so I am forever grateful that we got to spend her final months there. But I didn’t really get to process the magnitude of so many gigantic losses in such a short period of time. Leaving that house felt like leaving my dad, my Em and my childhood all behind. It’s a lesson that nothing is permanent in this life. Death is inevitable and inescapable. I wish it were talked about more so that it doesn’t blindside you when it happens. All that remains are the memories. The ones that live in your head and the ones you print out.
So today I’m sharing some of the memorial sessions I’ve had recently. These sessions are emotionally challenging and hard for me, but I know first-hand just how important they are. I’ve met some of the most amazing people from these sessions. They often turn into friends. These people are “my people” and we all have a shared love of our pets, and an invisible string connecting us through our grief. They’re not “just a dog” - they’re our family.
Me and my Emmie Lou, just 5 days before she crossed the rainbow bridge. A dear neighbor at my mom & dad’s house graciously took this for me with my camera and I’m so grateful that we live in a world where photographs exist.
