The Loss of an Animal

DISMANTLING THE PERFECTION OF GRIEF

Words By Zoe Peled | Illustration By Monika Andrekovic

Surprisingly, to some folks, I don’t cry easily. Taking into account some of the things that I see on a regular basis (and have seen), this shouldn’t really be the tendency. As an animal activist, I have spent over nine years bearing witness to some of the most horrendous things that human beings consistently inflict on the animals we share the planet with.

The lack of tears? That could be due to many factors. As animal activists (and as any individual who expresses emotion over animals knows all too well), we are often reminded to avoid being overly sentimental. We are told to withhold our feelings, stop making it personal, remember that it’s the circle of life, and accept that it’s all part of the natural food chain (or insert-yourfavourite-anti-vegan-sentiment-here).

I have seen all of the images.

I have seen all of the videos.

I have purposely unblocked the visuals that Facebook, Instagram, and other social media channels are now brilliantly curating (censoring), in an attempt to keep the realities of the animal industries at bay. Rest assured: there is response, there is emotion, there is action. These are translated into outreach, activism, and building awareness. Whilst there is emotion, it is expressed very selectively; never in a public setting, if at all. Years of sitting behind the screen watching these images loop, years of conditioning, years of reminding myself not to be overly sentimental, have kept the tears at bay. That is, until Peony.

Looping images, conditioning, and my personal internal reminders were no match for the one of a kind of loss, the familiar grief, and the punch-in-thestomach sensation that comes with one of the animal activist’s biggest losses: the death of a rescue animal.

Peony, also affectionately known as P, landed in my hands this summer as a baby chicken, just a few days old. At her age, she still should have been with her mother. However, due to the demands of the egg and chicken industries, she was already next in line to join the production team. Her destiny was pointing her towards the egg industry, or that of a broiler chicken being raised for meat. So, I made the (unplanned, yet necessary) choice to remove her from the situation.

The rescue itself, on that night, was a success.

P made herself right at home. Quickly, she was befriended by two dogs who coveted her and shadowed her every move. My armpit was her preferred sleeping location, presumably due to the fact that she was seeking out the heat that would have otherwise been provided under her mother’s wing. Riding around on my shoulder came in second for her favourite place to rest, and, to ensure she had maximum opportunities for body heat, P ended up travelling most places with me, including work and social engagements.

Not too long after her rescue, a new home was secured for her, a place of refuge, where her destiny would be redefined, and so would she. Her life here would be based on her inherent right to live out an existence free of human misuse, abuse, and, ultimately, her death at the hands of the industry.

THE PERSONALITY OF P

P’s voice was tremendous. She chose to not be quiet a lot of the time, unless she was asleep in my hand or armpit. She spoke her mind frequently, and (as any new parent knows) may have been on the receiving end of some early morning profanities. Thankfully, it quickly became normalized, and was background noise in the house within a few days. That was until the Thursday morning when I came home to facilitate transport to her refuge, and her voice was silent.

P was lying on the bottom of her box. She was flat on her stomach, and was breathing so infrequently, I assumed she was dead the moment I found her. Within minutes, fuelled by adrenaline and not much of anything else that I can recall, we were in a cab, P was in my shirt to keep warm, and I was trying to haphazardly advise the driver on the best driving routes to get us to the vet as soon as possible. Of course, the whole time I was also perfectly aware that I was crying, a fact that I was trying my best to ensure the driver wouldn’t realize.

P, explained the vet, was a runt. This was evident by the proportion of P’s body to her feet. P’s internal organs were damaged and her digestive tract wasn’t functioning properly. While she could eat, the systems to absorb the food properly and have her reap the nutritional components were broken. Most importantly, her liver was distended, and had started to bleed out.

At this point, any attempts to suppress emotion, control them, or not let anyone around me see them, were completely and utterly futile. The vet explained that the next few hours would be touch and go, and advised me to leave, while committing to keeping me informed of any and all changes.

There is no protocol that instructs us on what to do while we are waiting for news regarding a sick animal. There is no perfect set of steps a human can do to navigate the incredible loss of control or lack of ability to help in any capacity.

Subsequently, the next twenty four hours were an amalgamation of walking, walking more, standing by the phone as a tiny weekold-chicken was filled with oxygen and a slew of medications, walking more, letting the dogs out, checking my bank balance to ensure my credit card had more space, cleaning the wood chips out of P’s box so it was ready for her return, and standing in a eerily quiet house waiting for the incessant sound of chirping to return again. Against the odds, P survived the night. This was a feat, and in the afternoon, things took a dramatic turn. In a Gastown courtyard, I offered a verbal consent to a blood transfusion, all whilst being aware it was potentially futile. Surviving the blood transfusion would be another feat.

Against the odds (again), P survived the blood transfusion. This was impressive for many reasons. However, the one that speaks the most to her strength was that she lived through the procedure and the pain from a transfusion she couldn’t get any medication for. Her body was simply too small.

With sick animals, you never expect anything to stay the same for a long period of time. You’re on tenterhooks, and you’re prepared to be celebrating, or gutted and grieving, at any moment. Of course, when the vet called me that afternoon and asked me to come in, I knew which one to prepare for.

THE LOSS OF P

P was in a closed transparent box, which was constantly being filled with oxygen, the most efficient option for an animal (baby) of her size. There was a cluster of fleece scraps hung in one corner of the box, which served as her surrogate mother, and seemed to offer some comfort.

We sat together for over an hour. She moved back and forth between her fleece mother (eyes closed), and the side of the box (eyes open) to glance at me and offer a knowing nod. We shared these moments, through this transparent plexiglass box, and a few hours later, P peacefully fell asleep at 4AM and left us.

This is when the grief really hits, and this is when you experience emotions and tears in a very poignant way.

There were tears of sadness, anger, frustration, and utter disbelief. There were tears of confusion and bitterness. There was no censoring, and there was no attempt to hide them. I cried in the vet’s office, in the cab on the way home, while buying dog food, and while sitting in the house with a table full of new supplies for a baby chicken.

There were tears of loss. There were tears for the sense of injustice, in removing an animal from a volatile situation, rescuing them successfully, and still losing them. There were tears for the complete sense of having no control, to have lost a life that was doomed from the minute it began, already maimed by the industry, and broken at birth.

The death of a rescue animal: we call this a punch-in-the-stomach sensation, is a different kind of grief. It is a loss that makes no sense, cannot be justified, is seeped in injustice, and leaves an overwhelming sense of defeat.

Many people around me knew about P. Not many people around me quite knew how to react to this story, to this grief, to this loss; nor did they comprehend its magnitude. I shared her story with a few different groups of friends and supporters; with a wide range of reactions. On one side, I had friends from across Canada and the U.S.A. (who I had never met) that were sending notes of support; on the other side, I had friends who heard her story, were clearly perplexed by my strong reaction, and didn’t know quite what to do with me.

Every note of resilience I had been holding on to as an animal activist, notes which I fully understood were expected of me, were exceptionally challenging to maintain.

THE LESSONS OF P

When we lose an animal, there is no perfect solution to navigating grief. Grief is something that we all experience differently, and it’s imperative that we are permitted to do so. Within the animal rights community, we encounter loss on a regular basis, and in varying amounts. Identifying the emotional capacity needed to process this is not only important, it is also crucial for longevity and wellness.

Respecting these processes doesn’t mean that we are all over sentimentalizing the situation. However, it does shift another aforementioned criticism of animal activists: we make it too personal. In actuality, it is personal, and that is one of the reasons we are constantly spurned to do this work and continue, even while navigating hardships.

As there is no perfect solution to navigating grief, there is no perfect conclusion to P’s story. There is no perfect reason as to why I found her, why she was rescued, and why she died.

There is opportunity, however, in speaking about her. There is opportunity in sharing her story, acknowledging the fact that there are millions of others like her, and above all: strength in creating an identity for her and acknowledging she was an individual, and not a number, product, or commodity. Crying for P, and expressing emotion, has not made me any less of an animal activist, nor has it muted my voice or credibility in any way. Within all activism circles (and outside of them), we need to acknowledge our capacity to feel, recognize that it’s not detrimental, and have no shame in doing so.

Speaking to the majority, when a human grieves for a human, they are comforted. When a human grieves for an animal (especially one that is not a dog or cat), they are questioned. May this be a call to action to offer the same in both circumstances: an ear, support, an openness to understanding, and, above all: accepting that grief happens, will happen, and does not need to be decorated with a lofty meaning. It just needs to be respected, navigated, and experienced.

ABOUT

Zoe Peled became vegetarian at a very young age, and has been vegan for almost nine years. She received her BFA in Photography from Emily Carr University, with additional studies in Critical Theory, examining the positioning and terminology around animals. Her personal studies continue to examine the role of animal welfare and animal/human relationships; which has led her to both speaking engagements and internationally published work (Antennae Journal of Nature in Visual Culture, U.K.). Currently, she sits on the Board for Liberation BC, and founded the Vancouver Vegan Resource Centre (VVRC) in 2018.

ig: @zoemarg

THANK YOU

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