When trois-pattes died so unexpectedly she lay there, eyes wide open. Soon, the flies came, crawling all over her coat, her beautiful eyes. Her belly swole and I stuck in a needle to let the air get out. Never let me go – that’s a picture I took of her alive, not long before. Then I filmed her dead. Recorded the screams of anguish of her sister, all alone. It was tragic, it was unpredictable. Death doesn’t wait. It was a beautiful day. The grave is next to the wood where she used to live. I can’t get her out of my head, I feel so guilty I couldn’t save her. It’s voyeuristic, that sick attraction to the macabre, but I can’t help it, I’m drawn to it like the flies to her corpse.
