Amanda loves her dog. There were times in the last 3 years when I didn’t quite understand the attachment she had to the animal. Amanda didn’t come out for drinks too often or stay out late because she needed to go home to the dog. At times it perplexed me, I worried she was missing out. Maybe she was too dependent on it, I thought.

On Saturday we went to visit Amanda in her apartment. Denny was away on a photoshoot in Lisbon and Roberta and I both took large, yellow, late September sunflowers in an effort to bring some cheeriness to the occasion because the dog was going to die. 

Amanda’s apartment in Prenzlauerberg is inside a grand building. The corridors are long and vast with echoing ceilings and mirrors on the walls which surprise you as you walk past. It was the first time Roberta and I had been to Amanda’s. She had laid the table with an array of decadent snacks; pickles from the farmers market swimming in sweet vinegar, a home baked blueberry and raspberry tart, feta with chilli oil, a can of Portuguese sardines, organic Rosé the colour of beetroot and traditional Brazilian cheese breads puffed up and steaming from the oven. 

Frida roared at me as I walked in the door. A friendly roar but frightening nonetheless. She is a full sized sheepdog, tired, tawny with rough black fur all but for her white mouth, eyebrows and feet. Her bark is very loud, bordering on the ferocious. But Frida is my friend. I know this because when we meet Amanda and Denny on the street Frida wags her tail and approaches me quietly allowing me to stroke her. Whereas famously by contrast, on seeing mine and Amanda’s old boss Frida would explode into a series of uncontrollable snarls even much to our amusement, if the woman was 50 feet away or still inside her car.

Amanda poured the rosé into our glasses which were delicate and charming like all the possessions inside her house. I noticed that her hair was clipped with a black and white celluloid  hair grip in the shape of a sheepdog. Frida walked into the bedroom and climbed onto Amanda and Dennys bed, where she slept with her nose buried between their two pillows. 

As we talked about each other’s lives, my 35th birthday party the weekend before, Roberta’s upcoming trip to India and Amanda’s terrible bout of food poisoning on a work trip in Paris, Frida slept. When Amanda tearfully began to talk about Frida’s cancer diagnosis Roberta started to cry. I reached across the table and took Amanda’s hand. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles from caring for the dog round the clock. She was tired. She was afraid of what would happen after Frida died. I realised then that I didn’t ever really know Amanda until this moment. 

We had many experiences together of course, bonded by working in fashion, moving to Berlin, running to the supermarket in our lunch break, being outraged when the seating plan was changed, the time we came to the office and someone had simply removed Amanda’s desk and chair altogether. There had been birthday parties and tarot readings and wine dates, ice cream and quick walks down by the Spree before the pandemic when we were both chained to our desks. There had been bad news in our lives and good and we had experienced it together, as close as one can.

As I mentioned before, I never really understood Amanda’s relationship with her dog. I have never had a dog. As I sat there I thought of the stray kittens I had met on the streets of Montenegro that summer who I had adored, spoiled and then washed from my hands like holiday lovers. I could dwell on them sadly, especially the last kitten we saw at the train station that came running inside from the rain. It was filthy and crying. A girl pulled a sausage from her bag, bit a piece off, chewed it and fed it to the kitten from her hand. I saw in her the same kindness that I see in Amanda. I cannot bear to remember it too hard.

The diagnosis was bladder cancer. There was nothing that could be done, the Vet offered chemo which Amanda and Denny refused due to the stress it would cause to the dog. 

Amanda told us how she would have to eventually have Frida put down. She would have to feed her sedatives, let her fall asleep and then call the vet who would administer the injection. Amanda told us she would buy some pretty fabric in which she could wrap Frida up before having her cremated. 

You often hear about how dogs are ‘man’s best friend’ but Amanda calls Frida the love of her life. 

I no longer misunderstand Amanda’s love for her dog. In fact, I think that what she has to do is probably the biggest act of love that anybody could ever give.

After Roberta left I sat on the couch and Frida jumped up to sit next to me, resting her nose on my thigh while Amanda sat on the floor below her. She told me that Frida couldn’t walk much anymore and that she and Denny had taken to just sitting outside with her, where she would close her eyes and lie down. 

In Amanda’s kitchen is a large framed photograph of pink clouds taken by her husband Denny. I think of how Frida’s life with Amanda and Amanda’s life with Frida has been one long pink sunset. There are clouds sometimes but above this, there is only love.