When an animal dies there is no service, no gathering, nowhere to put it.
People grieve a dog or a cat as deeply as they grieve anyone, and are often
quietly embarrassed to say so. These films exist to give that grief somewhere to go.
Built from the animal’s own photographs. Their markings, their coloring,
their face — not a stand-in. Where a family has more than one pet, they appear together.
These are theme demonstrations, not finished films.
Each was built from one or two photographs so the setting and the pacing can
be judged quickly. A family’s own pet film is built from their whole
collection and runs longer.
The Golden Stair
Their pet climbing toward the light among other animals, welcomed at the gate by angels.
Roughly forty seconds, ending on their pet’s name and the years they had them.
The full film. Your pet climbs the golden stair toward the light, other animals
on the steps around them, angels waiting at the top. The world first, then them
coming closer, then the two of you together, then the climb away into the light.
About half a minute, ending on their name.
The same journey, shorter, and your pet alone. The gate far off across the marble,
then they come to you — and closer — and then they turn and climb away
into the light. No crowd, no ceremony. Fifteen seconds, made to keep on a phone.
Summer grass, a fence line, low evening light — a dog running the way it used to,
then lying down in the grass and looking back at you. Ends on their name
and the years you had them. Thirty-five seconds.
For a family who has lost more than one animal over the years. A porch with the
door standing open, the older ones already lying on the boards, and the newest
one coming up the path to them. Twenty-eight seconds.
One photograph, gently brought to life — a breath, a blink, the turn of the head.
The camera never moves and the animal never leaves the frame, because the moment it does
it stops being their photograph. Five seconds each.
