Simon Sheep

Simon 9/7/2003-6/18/2010

This is your last photo, Simon. It captures your essence perfectly. Curious, gentle with a hint of jester lurking behind gold-hued eyes.

Nearly seven years ago, you arrived on a cool fall morning - a day-old lamb and already forsaken by the world. Your mom abandoned you and so had the farmer. Like your rescuer, we promised that would never happen again. Promises can be such tricky things.

The first time I interacted with you, you head-butted me. Nine-months-old and king of the world. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment when you started to mellow, wanting to receive scratches instead of knocking heads. Whenever it was, I'm sure we all heaved a sigh of relief - finally the king had matured.

Your love was Sophie and the sheep. You wanted nothing to do with the other animals, and focused your entire being on monitoring the flock. I think you filled up with joy each time a new sheep was added - your flock of four grew to eight, and you were content.

In the past year, I watched with pleasure as you sought out people on tours, reveling in their scratches and massages. No more head-butting for you!

Last year, you struggled to overcome bladder stones, mineral deposits that blocked your urethra and stopped you from urinating. The pain you endured was immense and two surgeries later, we hoped against all hopes that it would never happen again.

This past Tuesday, you went blind. Your gut was not working, not moving like it should. We knew that in ruminants, an improper working stomach spells disaster. We threw everything at you to transform sickness into health. When you refused to eat, we rushed you to the veterinary hospital.

You were blocked again. The first attempt at flushing the stones out failed. Surgery was your only option. When they opened you up, the damage was extensive. To fix you meant to hurt you more, and it did not come with a remote guarantee of success. The likelihood of recovery, of never having stones again was nil. This was your final surgery, if you got stones again, we could not help you. Recovery from this surgery is one of the most painful, almost as painful as the stones themselves.

Of course, you were asleep for all this. Unconscious.

Your life, your death - it all boiled down to ten wrenching moments in which we had to decide. Could we put you through months of recovery, then almost immediate blockage, out of a small, tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, you'd live a few months more? Is that what you wanted? Perhaps it was, and perhaps we failed you in the ways only humans can. Perhaps it wasn't.

We took your life because we wanted to take away your immense suffering and almost certain, painful death. Selfish and selfless, the dichotomy of being responsible for another living being's care.

I will hold dear the final moments spent with you. You could not see me, but when you sniffed my hand, I could feel you relax. As I scratched soft cheek and chin, massaged short wool, you leaned into me. We took comfort in each other, in the knowledge that cheek to cheek, we were safe.

We'll miss you Simon. Your mischievous glances, playful nudges, and insistent ploys of garnering attention. Sophie will miss you, her adopted brother, the one who protected and comforted her. The flock is empty without your calm presence. I'm incredibly sorry we could not heal you.

Arturo

On an online board somewhere out in the land of internets, there is a post about someone losing their chicken. Trust me, it's out there. And in the comment section, there is this - "It's only a chicken."

Not even a measly she or he, but the most distancing of pronouns - it.

Then there is the only a chicken part as if who we bond with must pass a litmus test, achieve something greater than the only a criteria. Only a dog. Only a cat.  I've heard well-meaning people try to comfort the grieving parents of a lost infant by opining that, well, at least they didn't live long, didn't suffer long, or hey, you didn't put them through college or anything grandiose like that.Only a...

Grief is grief is grief. It's a living, breathing thing. It can be the soul-eating grief of losing a beloved, someone so near and dear to your heart that they might as well have taken up residence amongst ventricles. It can be the mind-numbing unexpected loss, the kind that takes your breath away, leaving you empty and drained. Sometimes it is a passing thing, strolling through uninvited, shaking you up.Other times it sits there, waiting for an opportune moment to rear its head, make you remember, make you feel. And that ache can happen no matter who you mourn for - a neighbor, a beloved dog, a parent or child, your best friend, even a perfect stranger. It's a strange thing, grief. Never an only a deal.

I present to you, Arturo:

He is dead, no longer ruling leader of the chicken clan. I had a dream about him, flying over gates, spreading orange feathers gently over a small hen, cooing to his young, alive.So very alive.

Arturo was born at the sanctuary, a small fluffy creature, cheeping, calling, awaiting the day he too would be a big chicken. The hens loved Arturo. His mating ritual was a thing to behold, an intricate display of "rooster-ness" combined with gentleness. It is no wonder the hens liked him - he took his time, no "grab and go", nothing rough and tumble in the way he showed his love. He made it a point to interrupt the rougher roosters, shoving them bodily off of unhappy hens. He wouldn't take their place, only gently groom rumpled hens. I loved this about Arturo, a rare gem among roosters!

It was not like I was particularly close to him, I admired him from a distance. He rarely took a bad photo, and if he did, I'd never betray his secret. I loved how the other chickens would flock to him, watching him closely as he pecked in the grass or scratched in the dirt. When he would sun-bathe, flinging a wing dramatically out, at least three or four other birds would emulate. Yoga with Arturo, master of the Phoenix Sun Pose.

One day, seven baby birds emerged from the hills, trailing their mother. She had hidden her nest well, warming it every night, waiting for the perfect moment when tiny beak met shell and a new life emerged. While we cringed at adding seven birds to the flock, we marveled at these tiny lives, strutting, running, flitting from one spot to the next. As they aged, it was quite obvious who fathered them. Newman is large like Arturo but lacks his social graces, he is not a benevolent ruler. Arturo would not be proud. Kramer looks the most like Arturo with his speckled orange feathers. I am hoping he will turn out like his dad. And then there is Cosmos, who I am pretty certain is not Arturo's but that of Danny, a tiny Japanese bantam who had a secret rendez-vous with Cosmos' mother. All four hens look exactly like their mother, tiny, feisty, no-nonsense hens.

Arturo started to decline, hunched over more days than not. He would go up the hill a ways, crouched by himself. The day before he died, I watched a strange thing happen. More than a third of the birds walked up to where Arturo sat, uncomfortable. They surrounded him, several groomed him, and I had to run back to my office to grab a camera. Even the other roosters were coming up, keeping a respectful distance but not challenging him. I only caught a few of the birds surrounding him, but I think it speaks volumes about how important Arturo was to the flock. Even if they are crappy photos.

And then he was gone. Just like that, one day out there leading hens to prime dust-bathing spots, the next an Arturo-sized hole. I can't say the flock acted any different. I don't know whether chickens mourn, I like to think some do. I know they form bonds and make friends, along with enemies. They gossip all day long (Arturo never did, because he was kind like that). If some of the chickens did mourn, I did so right alongside them. He did not live as long as he should, though he lived every day gloriously and happily. A good life for only a chicken.

In Memory: Flo

Once there was a goat, a special creature who you wanted to curl up with and share all your secrets. She had forgiven humans for milking her and for sending her babies off to slaughter. In her heart, there was a giant ball of compassion, of wanting to share and receive kindness.

Her name was Flo.

There are animals who touch your heart, who leave you with the certain knowledge that these other species are not moons circling us but are their own planets, in their own orbits, making their own way in the world. They do not just touch you, they grab at everyone and anyone within their sphere. People meet them and laugh at their friendliness, find comfort in their gentle presence and realize how much emotion and intelligence lurks behind those all-knowing eyes.

That was Flo.

She touched us all, from the staff who whispered words of love in her soft ears to the visitors who pushed and shoved to scratch her back, to bask in her presence. The other goats looked up to her for years, their queen, their leader who knew where the star thistle lay, where the best meadows for grazing sat waiting, just waiting for the goats to arrive.

Flo grew old.

The years were kind to Flo; she aged with grace and integrity. Her body did not. It fought against her spirit and hurt Flo with cancer and failing kidneys. We watched and waited. We held on and cried and leaned against her, wishing it all away, wishing her to get better. She did not fight or hold on, she did not rage against the world with all its injustices and coldness and cruelties. She leaned back and sighed, waited for us to massage her, for us to stop our senseless tears. Her body sent mixed messages, telling her one day she was fine and the next four days, she was not. She grew nauseous and tired, trembled with effort to get up, looked longingly at her herd as they winded their way up hills and foraged. Everything was an effort, a struggle. And yet we watched, because in her eyes we still saw life and hope and Flo. We made her comfortable, gave her things to ease the pain, fed her whatever food she could stomach.

But then it was time.

We were not ready. We never are. This time, she leaned against us. She pushed and made her presence known. When the sedative took effect, she sighed, a release and lay down as if just to rest, to sit awhile. She laid back against us and there was no flailing, no rejection, just her and us together. And then she was gone, it was that quick and fleeting. Once alive, suffering in this world, now not. Just us.

She is buried on the property where she can once again become part of the grassy fields, of this place she called home, a place that, for now, feels a little colder, a little wider and emptier without her alive in it.

We will miss her so much. We are so grateful to have known her and we hope that, for those of you who met her, you are grateful too. She was a special, precious, wonderful friend.

Sanctuary Notes: In Memory of Harold

Harold, the little black pygmy goat with the shortest legs and the deepest voice, was euthanized last week. Harold was special. He won the hearts of staff and visitors, first with his small stocky stature then with is big personality. He was buried near the rolling hills and rock piles he was to climb in Grass Valley, and his presence is missed on the steep hills in Vacaville.

Harold arrived at Animal Place five years ago. He was found tied to a fence at a slaughterhouse, sick, anemic, riddled with parasites, and practically blind. He was treated with antibiotics for his infections, dewormer for his parasites and anemia, and a slew of eye ointments to help his painful eyes recover. The vets questioned whether the corneal ulcers would rob him of his vision forever. Slowly, with gentle care he had most likely never known, received from people he couldn’t see, he started to improve. His anemia cleared, he could see, and he learned some people could be trusted.

He never really came around to being the most social of goats, except when he wasn’t feeling well. Harold sought attention when his teeth were causing him pain. He sought attention when he could feel the restriction of the mass growing in his lungs. Maybe he remembered the first time he was nursed back to health. When he started being social with people a month ago, we encouraged the interactions, picking leaves from the tree he could never reach. We soon noticed he had difficulty breathing. He was examined at UC Davis’s veterinary hospital and found to have a mass or abscess stealing a third of his lung space.

When they recommended restricted movement and isolation, we had a tough choice to make. We knew his time was coming to an end and couldn’t bear the thought of keeping him from his friends. In the end, we let Harold decide – did he want to spend his remaining days grazing alongside his goat friends? He stayed out with the herd. We gauged his quality of life as best we could.

Harold told us when it was time. His breathing worsened and he stopped going to graze with the goats. We scheduled a vet to come and euthanize him at the sanctuary, the only place he knew as home. When I scooped him up to take him to the stall for his last few minutes, his loss of weight and will to fight were shockingly apparent. The entire staff was there as the drugs were administered, and his labored breathing slowed, then stopped.

Deciding when to euthanize is definitely the hardest part of my job. We decide as a group, considering the observations and emotions of each staff member. Sometimes we arrive at the decision to euthanize at different points in disease progression. Regardless of our personal timing, it seems the animals always tell us when they are ready. It could be as dramatic as Val the pig showing us her legs no longer have the strength to lift her heavy body or as subtle as Nancy the goat gradually slowing down then losing the spark from her eyes. Of course its never easy, but having a consensus, especially with the animals, makes us feel more assured of our decision. Providing these animals with a great life includes helping them pass as painlessly as we can, as hard as that can be. I play the images of Harold scampering down the steep hills with his short gait, of him saying hello to the dentistry vet by planting his front hooves mid-thigh, of all the things that made Harold so uniquely Harold and they remind me we gave him the best life possible.

In memory: Stewart

You were the first. Accompanied by twenty other rabbits, you arrived at Bunny Haven ready to take on the world.

You never let your small stature get in the way of what you wanted. With charm, some flashing teeth and determination, you earned the spot as Top Rabbit. Everyone respected you, including temporary residents, like Sebastian the goat and Maggie the turkey.

A year ago, your rear legs started to fail. You were ten, a superb life behind you and a slightly declining life ahead. For ten years, you had known what it was like to hop and run and jump. You would balance on hind legs, begging for apples. In your small body, you exuded greatness.

And then.

We watched uncomfortable and unsure as you struggled with the loss of your rear limbs. You dragged yourself about, adjusting to what we thought might be an unfair life. But what right did we have to say it was unfair? To say your quality of life wasn't up to our standards? You showed us otherwise, that your quality of life was up to your standards and that's all that mattered.

You moved into a safer enclosure with another hind-end paralyzed rabbit, Thor. You ate with enthusiasm and allowed some of the volunteers to stroke your soft fur, sometimes demanding more attention. In your twilight year, your last beautiful period of existence, you lived a calm, dignified life and you were comfortable and content.

And then.

Time was never on your side, not on anyone's side really. You started to show us that life was hurting you, that you were suffering. Sometimes you ate, sometimes you didn't. Sometimes you would end up on your left side, the one side that prohibited you from moving. We knew this was hard for you, knew the signs of your discomfort and stress. Your friend, Thor, knew too. Sometimes we would catch him smothering you, trying to stop you from struggling. You would stop, give up, panting in exhaustion.

We knew. You did not. Every movement was a struggle for you, but you were still aware. It just was not fair. You died on a hot day. Your favorite volunteer fed you a last meal worthy of the kingly rabbit you are. Were. Thor was by your side as you took your last breath. We watched and waited and then, you were gone, a small, heaving sigh the only sign you had departed.

You had a life and it was good. Stewart, you were the perfect leader, the perfect friend, the perfect rabbit. Life was very easy and wonderful for you and then it was harder, as it is with us all. And you did not mind. We should all be so lucky. You will be missed.

In memory: Leland

Leland: 3/13/1998 - 1/31/2009

For nine years, you wowed crowds with your strutting display, your tail feathers proudly flashing.
You tried to impress the turkey girls - they clucked and turned away.
You attempted to woo the chickens - they ran away in horror.
So you turned to us humans, following us around, vibrating your feathers to make an impressive whirring sound.

You did not need to do much to find favor with humans - we adored your shining personality, your mood-bearing color changes and, of course, your quintessentially "turkey" display.

You lived life as a turkey should, with his own kind, safe from human predation and free to do what turkeys do. You dedicated your life to patrolling the poultry enclosure, monitoring the turkey ladies (hoping they might one day change their mind), and breaking up fights between the chickens. You have even saved a human or two from being attacked by Killer, the feisty (though tiny) rooster.

And, blessing of blessings, you lived most of your life free of pain and suffering. Your last few weeks were not the best but you made the best of them. And when your caregivers knew it was time to let you go, you did not resist but sighed heavily, in relief almost, and died peacefully.

We hope your life here was as enriching for you as it was for us and the thousands of people who were amazed by your beauty and splendor. Still, at the heart of it, we wish you were here, strutting and patrolling and just being you.

In Memory: Tony

1/1993-11/2008

By goat standards, you lived long and well. You were never friendly, preferring to keep your distance from us. Even when we would feed you sweet grain, you would shy away or try to head butt us if we attempted to pet you. Human touch you did not crave and we always tried to respect that.

In your younger years, you were the goats' go-to man, the head honcho. Everyone would follow you to graze upon green hills. Time passed and you aged, you slowed down and spent more time in the barnyard than with the goats. Your organs began to fail you and you struggled with painful bladder stones.

And then one day, you were ready to leave us, to move on. You did not want us to touch you or be with you, dying did not mean you wanted our comfort. You went in peace and with dignity and with that ever present smirk on your face.

We will miss you so much, even if we never hugged you or stroked your angora-soft hair. You had friends and lived and munched on grass and did your goatly things. People often speak of extraordinary animals, those great beings who flit in and out of our lives with their special lessons. You were extraordinarily normal and so incredibly perfect that way.

-Animal Place staff