Cattle to New Pasture

Running a 600-acre sanctuary is a lot different than 60 acres! We want to preserve the integrity of the land and, to do that, we have to move animals to different pastures, rotating where they can graze.

Today, we moved the cattle to another pasture. We were not sure how quickly they'd head out through our makeshift chute, but we didn't have to wait long at all! The cattle knew what to do and as soon as we opened the gates, they were out into the new meadow, chomping away.

Enjoy the photos!

Peas in a Pod

Well, more like mirroring cows!

Summer and Freedom are six-months old and like to copy whatever the adults are doing. So when they saw Nicholas (2) and Elsa (15) bonding through some head pushing, they had to be just like them!

Pretty cute stuff, huh?

Freedom is on the left - he's a bit more bloated, because he was born with a congenital defect. His tail is missing and his anus is in the wrong spot, which gives him some digestive and pooping problems. Summer is on the right and in really great health.

In the background, Nicholas is on the left - he just turned 2 in December. Elsa, the old lady cow of the herd is 15 and on the right.

Foggy Day

Everything is so much quieter when the fog rolls in, especially when it hangs around for the long haul.

It's noon out here and the fog hasn't left, choosing to partially obscure the sanctuary hilltops and shroud the valley in a cool mist.

The animals are mostly lying down, abstaining from making too much movement. The cattle chew cud noisily, surrounded by pink and red pigs who snore or graze contentedly on the grass.

Chickens and turkeys keep below the overhang, their avian murmer far quieter than normal.

The sheep look lovely on sheep hill, soft and cool. Fog hangs low behind them, a nice backdrop to their contented grazing. Lovely day at the sanctuary.

Howie gets loved on

Last week, the Animal Legal Defense Fund (ALDF) came out for their holiday party. I tagged along for their tour and captured a couple of shots. Howie, the cherubic steer, was the most popular.

Now, back in the day, this type of photograph wasn't possible with Howie. Even five years ago, Howie was a friskier animal, prone to random bursts of energy that often involved tossing wheelbarrows for sheer fun.

He aged and became a little arthritic and suddenly galloping madly towards humans wasn't such a fun idea. Instead of scaring people off, Howie finally gets to enjoy all of the attention he craves.

Welcome Patty (II)

Normally, we don't have two animals with the same name at the sanctuary. When an animal arrives with a name and seems to know that name, we certainly make exceptions.

Such is the case with Patty the cow. She should be very honored because her namesake, Patty the Pig, is the best pig ever.

Patty is 8-10 years of age. She first lived on a dairy farm but had trouble with pregnancy. This is generally a death sentence for dairy cows whose only worth is how many babies they birth and how much milk they produce. A veterinary teaching hospital ran some medical tests on Patty and determined she'd make a good blood donor cow.

Yes, they use other cows to provide blood to client animals. Summer may have received some of Patty's blood when he arrived at the hospital six months ago. She was used in this manner for six years. Recently, she got sick of it, the poking and prodding was too much and she wanted out of the blood donor business. Normally, an unruly donor cow would be sent to auction and slaughter....but as with most rescues, Patty had an advocate to champion her cause. A veterinarian who had fallen in love with the gentle cow worked tirelessly to save her life and that of two other donor cows (who have adoptive homes, yay). The teaching hospital acquiesced and, after months of cutting through red tape, Patty finally arrived home.

We let in Nicholas to keep her company and this calmed Patty down immediately. She's lived with other cows, so we couldn't possibly leave her by herself - cattle are incredibly gregarious, a lone cow is generally a stressed out, unhappy one.We'll keep her in this pasture, with Nick as company, for several days. This will help her identify the barnyard as "home base".

It's been interesting - the past two cows, Elsa and now Patty, have both been around people a lot. Elsa spent fifteen years being milked and handled by humans of all ages. When we asked if she liked people, the response was an immediate Yes! But it turns out Elsa didn't really like all of the handling she endured. It's more than just the novelty of new surroundings - Elsa now has choices. She can choose to approach us or choose to walk away from us. If she wants to let me scratch her neck, that's her choice. If she doesn't, she moves away. She chooses where she grazes (tragically far enough away that staff have to hike up hills to check on her every day). All these choices! Patty's experience has probably been even less positive with people, so it isn't surprising that she decides to keep her distance. I did scratch her neck, long upward strokes to simulate a cow's tongue, and she lowered her head contentedly. But mostly, she just wants to be left alone.

It's so nice to watch animals get the opportunity to think for themselves, make their own decisions!

The Giant Pumpkin

Every day, we receive hundreds of pounds of day-old produce donated by two grocery stores. Yesterday, an employee at one notified us that a 60lb pumpkin had failed to sell and did we want it? Um, do pigs love food? Yes!


Abby, sanctuary supervisor and Louie, animal caregiver, took a picture with the giant gourd.

And then it was time to abandon the pumpkin to its fate.

Enjoy! The pigs and cattle sure did!

Divine Turkey Talk

Talking with turkeys is enchanting and divine. They do not use consonants and vowels but trills and whistles, clicks and melodic tweets. When they have an especially poignant point to make, their vocalization is like a goose, a honking screech reverbrating throughout the bird enclosure.

At Animal Place, there are seven turkeys, all with unique personalities and quirks. There is Willow, the mercurial red turkey who's only use for humans is when she is feeling particularly amorous. Zarriah and Serena are twins, white with black markings, the matriarchs of the main turkey clan. Finally there is Maya, the smallest of the turkey hens. Her movements are flighty, flitting from one point to the next.

The remaining turkeys spend their time with the peepers - a sanctuary term for the birds rescued from the meat industry. Margaret (left), Mary Lou and Eliza (below right) are all who remains from a clutch of twelve peeping turkey poults. They had been saved from the life of a breeding hen, the artificial insemination, the harsh life and painful death that is the fate of all production turkeys.

All three are de-beaked, the top portion of their upper beaks mangled. Two have grown back, flimsy shadows of their former sturdy glory. Every now and then the regrown beak breaks or chips, leaving the hen back in her de-beaked state. Their feet are painful to look at, the first digit of every toe has been cut off leaving them permanently disabled, forced to limp and lurch about. De-toeing is a human comfort making it easier for catchers to sweep into the large breeding sheds and grab frightened hens by the legs without getting scratched.

It is hard not love the Turkey Trio. You can sit amongst them and hear, touch, feel their presence. If you are lucky, one might stand in front of you and croon to you a warbling tune. If you smile at just the right time, she will bestow upon you a lilting trill - you will not know what she means, but you will be grateful for the experience.

These three are old, by production turkey standards, an amazing five years of age. Their sisters have died, victims of genetics that leave them prone to heart attacks, broken limbs, poor immune systems. Margaret, MaryLou and Eliza trudge on, singing and talking their way through life. If only we could follow suit, reducing our lives to only that which is essential, welcoming friends, chastising enemies with harsh cries and nothing more, grooming and preening, existing for ourselves and one another. I can imagine this world sitting immersed among these snow-white turkeys, listening to their divine turkey talk and imagining what they might be saying.

Windy days, unimpressed animals, learn to save

In a move only described as Epic Fail, I managed to delete the incredibly amazing, provocative, insightful, WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE post I was writing. I cried a little.

Now you will have to settle for the following.

Here is Willy. He is a goat, as evidenced by his horns, beard and caprine-like appearance.

Today is a very windy day - you can tell by the fact that the palm tree is about to topple over. Just kidding. Or am I? You would have to be present for the picture to know for sure.

If you look closely, you can see Willy's beard dancing in the wind to its own drumbeat.

I tried to get Willy to do something a little more exciting than lying down. So he turned his head to the side. You are as excited as I am by that pose, aren't you? Yes, well, goats rarely do what you ask them to do. This is a good thing, because even when goats do as you ask, they do it in such a way as to make your life a little harder. Funnier. But harder. Like for example, one time I asked Jeffrey to get his own leaves from the tree. So he attempted to use me as a climbing device. This was painful AND funny (in hindsight).

Moving on to some other animals and their methods of wind protection. Did I mention it is windy today? Oh yes, the palm tree. Anyways, it's gusty. I feel as if I might blow away at a moment's notice, yet the animals are all unperturbed.

Bruce is the pig in front. You can read his story here. It's a tear jerker.

He is snoozing as he is wont to do and, if you had been there, you would have seen his ear would flap upwards due to an unruly burst of wind. It was cute, yet I failed to get a shot of it. I apologize.

Behind him is Nicholas. To be honest, I am grateful Nicholas wasn't acting as if the wind was the best thing since alfalfa. If so, he would have been up, kicking and bucking, most likely within a two-foot radius of me. In play, jest, haha, you are so funny! I like not getting injured by frolicking bovines, so Nicholas is absolutely gorgeous lying there in the green, green grass.

Hazel is the blurry pink pig in the very back. And there is not much else to report about her, except that she was being the most exciting animal in this shot. LOOK AT THAT HIND LEG ABOUT TO MOVE!

And then there were the chickens. Oh, chickens. Surely there would be rambunctious hens and cavorting turkeys. They would be testing their wings on the updrafts, soaring high. Just kidding, they don't do that sort of crazy stuff. I mean, they could if they wanted to. But they do not. Want to soar on the updrafts, that is.

Instead they want to do stuff like this:

You cannot get much more awesome than Diablo and his blowing mane of feathers. YOU CANNOT. I mean, you could try, but you would fail and you would feel embarrassed that you thought you could. Try to make sense of that statement. Diablo was the ONLY chicken out in the grass. His head-feathers were blowing stylishly in the wind, his comb and wattles bright red and quite an appropriate testament to his namesake El Diablo.

If this changed your life, then my epic fail of before was not in vain - PLEASE TELL ME IT CHANGED YOUR LIFE. Diablo will thank you.

Sheep-tastic day at the sanctuary

In the past couple weeks, the sanctuary has received several inches of rain. It only takes a little moisture to inspire the grass to grow. Little shoots have popped up across the sanctuary grounds, transforming the landscape from brown-praririe grass to verdant green. We cannot wait for the grass to get lusher and taller - perfect picture-taking time for chickens!! And by we, I mean me, really.

The sheep were up on the hillside, aptly named Sheep Hill, nibbling away at the new shoots. I tried to get their attention for a face shot, but they all ignored me. I told them they were rude, at which point they all positioned their butts toward me. Thus, the only shots I got of Sheep Hill and the sheep grazing on it are all rear-end or side poses.

Which is fine, I guess. You do get to see the difference in tails with the sheep. Some of the sheep have their tails, while others have been rudely mutilated, their tails lopped off for no other reason than it is more profitable to remove body parts than practice good management and hygiene.

Amazing sheep fact: Sheep shouldn't have long tails. I don't mean we should cut them off, by any means. Just that the domestication process had some unintended (and tragically intended, in the case of wool) consequences. Wild sheep have normal, short tails that protect their rear-end without providing an ideal home for flies to lay their eggs. One side-effect of domestication is that most breeds of sheep have long tails. In breeds, like Merinos, where humans bred for folding skin for more wool, sheep can have problems with flies laying eggs in the folds of their skin and wool. The moist area under the tail can be a prime breeding spot for flies. We haven't had this problem, but we also monitor the sheep on a regular basis.

In any event, back to me and the sheep photography session. It went well, I suppose. There was not much activity from my perspective, although me clamoring up and down the hillside inspired some ire from a couple of the sheep.Here are a few of the shots with random commentary.

Remember, you can click on any of the photos for a LARGER version. 

Gwen, the amazing brown ewe

Gwen is actually part-muppet. She does not like to be told this, which is why she does not like to be touched or talked to or even looked at, really.

Gwen has been here since she was an itty-bitty. She came from a breeder who liked brown Merinos but didn't like caring for abandoned ones.

We hand-raised her, which is to say we bottle-fed her and hugged her and told her how pretty she was. Thus, we scarred her for life, leaving her unwilling to come near us.

When she is in a good mood, she will let us scratch her face. That is it. Mostly, she is not in a good mood. We have learned not to take great offense. After all, we have only ourselves to blame.

Lenny and mom

Lenny's butt is partially blocking his mother's head in the background. Rude kid, I tell you.

Lenny was born at the sanctuary. His mom, Virginia, was rescued from a slaughterhouse. She is a sensitive soul, having spent most of her life neglected and mistreated by humans.

Tragically, she has instilled this sense of disdain for humans into her son, Lenny. He sniffs hands and that's it. No petting, no googly eyes, no hugs. Nada. He'll give you the stink eye if you try anything funny.

AIDEN, THE BEST UN-SHEEP EVER!

Oh Aiden, you are truly the best un-sheep. In all the universe, and all those exo-planets they are discovering.

You can hug Aiden. You can scratch his head and his butt and even fluff the wool on his tail. You can pinch his nose very gently.

Aiden was abandoned by his mother, and I think this indicates a general inability to mother effectively on her part. Or perhaps she knew Aiden was special. He licked walls for a very long time. He still does, just to see if his palate has adjusted to include walls. He does not hang out with the sheep. When he sees us, he yells HAI! COME AND LOVE ME FOREVER!!! Literally, that's what he says. You don't have to believe me for it to be true.

He thinks he is a goat sometimes. The goats laugh at this preposterous notion and chase him off. He likes the pigs who like him back, except in the morning when produce is being fed (pigs don't like anybody then). Really, though, he's pretty much a strange little person with a thick coat and petite legs. I love him so. You do too, trust me. He is a loveable sheep.

Well, those are some of the sheep who call the sanctuary home. Etta, Simon, Sophie and Sam decided against making an appearance on Sheep Hill, due to the fact that apparently a straw-bed was way more cool. Silliness, according to the hill sheep and Aiden (who thinks everything the sheep do is rather silly). I do hope you enjoyed meeting them through the power of the internets.

On being afraid for Sadie

We've all met them. They have woven their story into our own. Their light becomes a beacon of our own, a shining we want to be near. Sometimes they reciprocate, attracted to our own flicker. Sometimes they tolerate us, bumping against our circle but not interested in entering. I've heard some call them their "heart" companions, these precious beings who force their way into some portion of our hearts. Their presence is weighty, a mass with feelings that sometimes spill out unpredictably.


Such is the case with Sadie.


I have not felt such a strong attachment to an animal at the sanctuary. Do not get me wrong, I love them all. Some I adore in different ways - for their stoicism, their playfullness, their joy, even their anger. I'm never indifferent to any sanctuary denizen - there are just some animals who I want to protect, nurture and be around more than others.

Sadie is special. People don't always see it when they meet her. She is a middle-aged Holstein cow, maybe 10 or 11 years old. Her life has never been easy. Never. Born on a dairy farm, she never knew her mom and she was denied the basics of motherhood - nursing her own young - for years. Her tail had been docked, leaving her defenseless against flies. My best guess is she gave birth to 3-5 calves. Maybe a few are still alive, living on a farm somewhere until they too are sent to auction. When Sadie ended headed for slaughter, she was purchased by a veterinary school and used as a training tool. A tool. Such a nasty word but it encompasses how she was viewed - a device to teach students rectal exams and finding veins. Her identification was an ear tag, nothing more.

She suffered from mastitis, a painful infection that engorged her udder with pus. It hurt, yet she trudged on, enduring the weeks of poking and prodding by students. In a cruel irony, she was never treated by the vet hospital, her mastitis was permitted to continue before she ended up at the sanctuary (and we had to take her back to that same hospital for mastitis treatment). At the age of 7, Sadie broke her left rear stifle when she slipped in the chute at the veterinary clinic, leaving her with a permanent, disfigured left rear leg.

Things did not look up when she arrived at Animal Place. We could not tell her that the daily, highly invasive mastitis treatment was meant to heal. She got into her routine of entering a make-shift chute, eating some fresh fruit, and having pus scooped from her udder. It had to hurt, such an uncomfortable indignity. I fed her apples every day. I promised her to be a source of good things - no touching, not a lot of talking, just apple after delicious apple. Our relationship was strictly one-sided - I adored her, loved her beautiful face, her stilted gait, her dedication to the crushing of red and green apples. She did not feel the same way about me - I provided her apples, that was good, but I was not her friend, not a bovine, not someone she could trust.

It hurt, this rejection. But stopping was never an option. If all she ever let me do was feed her apples, that would be fine. Just being near her calm, gentle presence was enough of a gift.

And then one day, her world once again spiraled out of control. She was pregnant. No one at the vet hospital had caught her near full-term pregnancy. We do not deal with births frequently and had no clue what ailed her. Her baby, a boy, died. She groomed him when his limp body fell to the ground. Oh how I cried for her, her loss, her missed chance to be a real mother. All this for a glass of milk. It seemed so unfair.

I kept my promise. Sadie only received good things. When she wanted to be left alone, I honored that. When she wanted a brushing, I reveled in grooming her. When she tolerated me massaging her sore leg, I'd push our boundaries and try to scratch her neck or touch her face. Back off, she'd sometimes say. But other times, she'd stand still, lower her head, and let me scratch in upward strokes her neck - the bovine way to groom a friend (they do it with their prickly tongues, I use my hand). For the rest of the day, I wore a goofy grin, so pleased with the progress.


This took years, folks. Years. And it isn't like we'll ever be best friends forever (still my great dream, of course). She loves cows, the real ones with four legs and alfalfa-smelling breath, the ones who know her moods in an instant. She likes me when she likes me and ignores me when she wants to be left alone.

She started losing weight a couple weeks ago. Her limp became more pronounced and she was knuckling over - her injured hoof would flip forward onto her ankle instead of back onto the bottom of her foot. She did not want to be touched. Even being brushed annoyed her. Something was wrong. Her blood tests returned normal, leaving us wondering what could be affecting her. We isolated her and offered food. Oh how she ate! Flake after flake of hay, bucket after bucket of produce. Perhaps she was being bullied away from the food or couldn't reach the best food in a quick amount of time, because of her leg. We're still not sure what the reason is for her decline.

But it has me afraid. Sadie has known nothing but heartache and suffering. She was exploited for years, and we desperately want the years of freedom and sanctuary to be longer, to be what she remembers most. This is the downside of opening up your heart to another living being, one who's life is generally far shorter than your own. It hurts to see them suffering, aches to be incapable of providing them relief. All we can do is make life comfortable and as enjoyable as possible. We'll get to the bottom of this - we have to.

Yesterday, Sadie was isolated in a pasture so she could receive ad lib food. She had been staring mournfully out at the other cattle. For hours, she stood and stared, as if willing her body to transplant itself from the pasture to the barnyard where her friends lay in straw. I watched her and felt that little Sadie-spot in my heart cry, so hurt at her emotional suffering. I headed out to the pasture where she stood, without any offering of food. We had set up straw pile for her bed and put out some hay which she had been ignoring for the better part of the day. Her shade where she stood was diminishing, being replaced by sun and heat. She needed to be in the shade, laying in a bed of straw, nibbling on hay.

I called to her. Sadie! Lo and behold, she turned her head and gazed back. Turning her body, her back legs shifting uncomfortably, she stared at me. I melted a little - perfect, perfect, perfect cow. Telling her she was a perfect, perfect, perfect cow, I willed her over to me, to the hay and straw. Until it is replaced by another, no moment left me speechless, so full of unparalleled joy as when Sadie stared me in the eyes and walked to me. She's never done this, chosen to come, it's always the other way around. But yesterday she did. For whatever reason, whatever thought propelled her closer to a human - well, I thank that thought. She sniffed me over, then dug into the hay. After every bite, she'd lift her head and drool on me, sticking her nose right in front of my face, breathing in my scent, exhaling hers. Conjuring up every ounce of self-restraint, I did not hug her. Hardest thing I've done in awhile.

So I'm afraid for Sadie. Afraid of the unknown thing that ails her. Afraid she won't have a set of great years. Afraid I won't be with her when she dies*, afraid she won't have her cattle friends with her when she dies. Afraid of many things that are silly and useless but plague me nonetheless. All those fears, I'm working at pushing them aside, balling them up, kicking them to the curb. Sadie is here. She is in the now, doing her best to forget the past. SHE KISSED ME WITH HER NOSE. A good thing, I think.


*Which she isn't going to do, by the way. She's living another 30,000 bazillion years.

A hen profile in black and white

Isn't she beautiful with her feathered toes, her pea comb*, and full plumage. I cannot say I know her name, but I recognize her uniqueness, her individuality and her intrinsic specialness. She poses for this shot, peering up at me with a curious gaze, wondering what this shiny black object might be to her. Peck, it does not taste edible. Scratch, it cannot be perched upon. So she stares gloomily ahead, concerned by the lack of engagement the whirring camera provides. Seconds later, she is gone, off in the thick, dead grass where her friends cavort. She talks, clucking and chirping, yelling indignantly when someone tries to take her spot. I watch, mesmerized. She is all motion, flapping wings, darting legs, yet all I can capture is stillness, pressing  the pause button in her moving life.

And then there is Tulip, a name I cannot forget. My sweet, glaring, seemingly stressed out friend. She does not do black and white, because she does not do refined poses or elegant stances. She is in your face, a little perturbed with the world, always squawking indignantly. Newman, the rooster, follows at a safe distance, never sure when Tulip's ornery glare will focus on him. He is wise not to boss Tulip around, she is dazzling color, confidence blooming from deep within her chicken soul. She let me get this shot, but she is already moving off frame, after more important pursuits. Newman follows her too, hoping against all hopes, she might change her mind and perhaps become more than friends, more than mere acquaintances in Tulip's mind.




I love these moments captured with the chickens and turkeys. They have conversations and friendships, fights and arguments, theirs is a world I pretend to understand...but really I remain woefully ignorant. There are nuances I cannot begin to understand, different gestures and words that convey something. It is all sound and motion, some touch but mainly sound, a truly cacophonous affair.

If you ever get a chance to visit Animal Place, do so. Or a sanctuary near you or maybe a friend who has companion chickens (adopted from a shelter, of course). Just sit and be with these animals, these small beings who sometimes let us into their orbits. It will bring you great joy, trust me. And if you bring grapes and a kind word, the chickens will reciprocate (with kind words, they will eat the grapes). That is how it should be.

*The fleshy proteruberance on a chicken's head.

Bruce, the pig who never gave up

To fully appreciate Bruce, you must learn a little about pigs. One, they are gustatory creatures, their daily moments are filled with thoughts and acts bringing them closer to food. Partly because of breeding for fast-growing animals to slaughter and partly because they really enjoy eating. Two, pigs are vocal animals, singing and grunting, snorting and sighing their way through life. Every vocalization is an expression of emotion, a verbal barometer of their inner world. And finally, pigs are social. They extend their circle of friendship to all species, a behavior that is sometimes appreciated, but more often inspires annoyance from the cows, sheep and goats. Chickens love pigs, though, and sometimes I wish the pigs and chickens lived together - a dream made of sound and conversation. It would be wonderful.

Which brings us back to Bruce.

Bruce grew up on a farm, alone. Sometimes a pony kept him company, sometimes it was a town of Bruce, population one. Of course, he didn't have a name then. It was just "pig" or "hog", nothing to identify him as an individual with inherent worth, a being unto himself.

And for years, he was deprived of nourishment. Toward the end, before he made his way to a more hopeful place, he was a skeleton with a hide draped over him. Remember, pigs love food. To see an animal so enamored with edible things be so painfully denied that which makes him joyous is heart-wrenching and anger-inducing. It took some convincing, but the farmer finally agreed to give up Bruce. Every time I hear that, "it took some convincing", I am left both perplexed and in awe of the ego of some humans.

It's not the greatest photo, but for me and Bruce, it captures the first moment of kindness he experienced. Bread! Everywhere! New things to smell and investigate - a porcine dream come true! He had to check out the pig boards, unnecessary devices in his case. He inhaled the chunks of bread, life giving sustenance he needed. As rescues go, he was one of the easiest animals to load up and transport to his new home. He wanted to leave, anyone who was nice enough to share food with him was a someone he wanted to befriend. And that person was Kim, director and cofounder of the sanctuary, also certified pig whisperer (or perhaps Pig Whisperer, to emphasize the specialness of her Whispering abilities). It would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

When Bruce arrived at the sanctuary, he was confined to a stall, perhaps a smaller area than he was accustomed. But this mattered not, because before his eyes was a veritable feast, perhaps to last a life time. Oh, the food! The different fruits, vegetables, grain, pellets, anything he wanted to try, he did. All the different tastes and textures of things he had never before enjoyed, oh how he scarfed and gnawed and slurped and chewed. He was in heaven, but it was a quiet place, save for the sound of his smacking lips. Bruce didn't talk. No grunts of contentment, no screams of displeasure, no gracious greetings or loud departures. Just silence and in it Bruce, still population one.

There were times when we thought he'd never talk, never seek out the contact pigs thrive on. We felt sorry for Bruce and, in those moments, we dishonored him. It's in our nature to want the animals who arrive at the sanctuary to emerge from their battered shells and love their new life. But every now and then, an animal arrives who just isn't ready or who is content in his own world, away from all the normal things his species typically enjoys.

So we gave him time. We let him eat and eat and eat some more until he gained 300 lbs. And then we let him out to be with his own kind, his own nation of pigs - we were hoping to expand his town's population. He thwarted us, choosing to go off on his own, sleeping under the stars out in the compost pile, mostly avoiding the other pigs. Some of the pigs tried to bond with him, including Aloha - she'd follow him and sleep near him. Infrequently, we'd see him try to reach out and engage, pausing to wait for Aloha or choosing to sleep in, say, the same compost pile. But Bruce was still in a town of his own making with strict rules of admittance.

Kim was the only one Bruce would try his rusty language skills with. She'd crouch in front of him, palms extended, grunting so softly. Bruce would seem interested and confused, unsure of these new words spoken by his rescuer. And then it happened! The smallest, quietest, gentlest of grunts. The sound reminded me of the strange, small whimpers a dog might make while dreaming a good dream. Bruce could talk! This was cause for celebration, a little dancing and laughter.

Little by little, Bruce started to loosen up. It took years, not weeks or months. We respected that, we had to. He started to develop friendships and bonds with the other pigs, but he never opened up to them, never really shared his words with them.

Until Owen. A sickly piglet with an insatiable curiosity brought out Bruce's porcine-side in spades. He would let Owen chew on his ears, leap gracelessly onto his belly, even allowed him to sleep on his back. Owen followed Bruce and learned from Bruce and talked incessantly with Bruce, sharing all of his secrets and fears and wishes - or at least where all the good sleeping spots were located! And Bruce listened, took it all in and, every now and then, responding in his own small way. A miraculous friendship!

Bruce never gave up. He trudged on tirelessly, sometimes lost in his socially stunted world, sometimes fully present in his new, enriched universe. He's never been all that outgoing or interested in spending time with other pigs or people, but he won't say no to a back scratch and cantaloupes are on the top of his Must Have list. Five and a half years after his arrival, Bruce made another positive step in his long-road of recovery. Earlier this week, I watched in uninhibited happiness as Bruce ran with all his might over to Kim. She had gone out to say hi, calling his name. He was perhaps 50-60 feet away when he heard her, a light bulb went off and Bruce decided the best way to greet her was to trot feverishly over. All he wanted was a small connection, some attention and scratches, a moment with a human he really liked. It was such an amazing moment, so small and insignificant in the grand scheme, but so powerful and perfect in our world at the sanctuary.

Bruce never gave up. He took his time, savoring the moments of contentment, reveling in new moments created by him and for him. The years he spent isolated and alone have traumatized him, he will never forget the longing and absence. I like to think the years of tranquility, the hours of zen spent in compost piles and strawbeds, the hundreds of pounds of food...well, I like to think they too have taken their toll, have guided him to a new location, a safer place. We wish that for everyone, a safe haven of kindness and respect. Bruce has certainly found his!

Cattle do hold grudges

Scientists long ago (and by long ago, I mean 2005) discovered cattle form cliques and even go so far as to hold grudges. I've seen that in the herd of cows, bulls and calves who live next to the sanctuary and are, tragically, raised for consumption. There are probably 3-4 different sub-groups amongst the eighty some odd cattle, and they generally do not mix company. Except for the bulls who are equal opportunity flirters. My favorite sub-sub group is comprised of Long Face, Skinny Cow and White Tail. Yes, silly names, but I have a hard time getting even more personal than that. Long Face is a beautiful brown-brindle cow with a loooong white-blazed face. Skinny Cow is a smaller, slender, black cow and White Tail is a black cow with white tail-hair. They do not hang out with anyone else - it's just them and their calves. Sometimes they'll be standing twenty feet from their sub-group with their backs turned, snubbing the rest. When they get separated, they'll moo for hours, guiding the lost cow back to her small clan.



At the sanctuary, there are five cattle - Sadie, Howie, Nicholas, Summer and Freedom.They're a tight-knit group and I can't say they bear any grudges toward one another. Sadie is enamored with Howie and rarely leaves his side, while Nicholas, Summer and Freedom sometimes spend time frolicking away from the two older bovines. This is all besides the point, which is that I learned first-hand what a cow-grudge entails.

Every day, I like to go out and see Sadie. I've worked hard to build up a positive relationship with her, often around food. So I usually bring her an apple or two and tell her she is a Very Nice Cow while I brush her. I always make sure to pay attention to all the other cattle, because I love them too. But I rarely bring them apples. Yesterday, Howie had had enough. He would not talk to me at all. Every time I tried to scratch his big neck, he turned away. Panic!!

Mulling his behavior over, I decided to bring him an apple the next day. In fact, I brought out five apples, one for each cow. Sadie's eyes got real huge, thinking she had scored in the apple-eating department. As she scarfed down her apple, I approached Howie - he eyed me warily but stretched out his head to inspect the apple. Taking it gently in his mouth, he rolled it around and then he spit it back out at me. This seemed like an attempt at insulting my apple selecting abilities, so I let him taste-test each apple. He spit them all out. Fine, be that way. Nicholas got a Howie-spit drenched apple while Summer and Freedom thought the apples were a rather silly thing to try and eat. Sadie nudged me, demanding that I stop trying to share HER apples and give them to HER. So I did. Howie felt it was the opportune time to amble over, nearly crushing my foot, and demand attention. He let me scratch and brush him thoroughly. So I guess I was forgiven? I'm not sure, but I hope to remain in his good graces; being snubbed by a bovine buddy is no fun.

He let me scratch his butt!!

<--- This guy, yes he did!

I consider Gilbert the most handsome goat at the sanctuary. He's got these creamy pendulous ears, soulful eyes and beautiful markings. BUT HE WILL NOT LET ME PET HIM. And this makes me sad, but this does not make me give up my dreams of snuggling with him. Okay, it does actually, but I am still convinced we'll be become best friends forever if I could just get his favorite tree leaves to grow out of my head.

In any event, I was out checking on Sadie, the cow, because I do this every day. Not because I think Sadie will magically disappear but because I have to keep reassuring her that my presence = apples and that is a good thing. This is how I often maintain excellent relationships with the less human social of the sanctuary denizens.

So there I was, giving Sadie an apple and massaging HER butt when Gilbert thought to himself, "Self, this is an excellent opportunity to receive appropriate scratches on my haunches where my hornless self cannot reach." This is actually what I imagine him thinking, of course, and perhaps not exactly what he thought. That is unimportant. What is important is that Gilbert planted himself right behind me while I discussed the best apple eating strategies with Sadie (I prefer mine sliced and covered in peanut butter, she prefers ten in her mouth whole). As I turned around to leave, I nearly face-planted because there was a hip-high goat in my way.

That is when I took advantage of the situation and scratched Gilbert's butt. He leaned into me and sighed. I thought briefly, very briefly, about hugging him and maybe asking him to prom but thought better of it. He hates hugs and would not look good in a tux. Nevermind all that, the point is that he let me scratch his butt. It was only for twenty-five seconds and he glared at me the whole time, but we had a connection, yes we did.

So, for today, that was my great victory. Scratching a goat's butt. Good times, good times.

Jersey Calves on the Run

When Abby, sanctuary manager, asked me if it would be okay to allow Freedom and Summer, our two youngest bovines, out in the big pasture with the rest of the animals, I asked when. Oh, now? Panic attack!! Will they be big enough to defend themselves? Will the other cows like them? Will they know not to run off into the hills and abandon ship? WILL THEY STILL LOVE ME? Abby patiently answered all my paranoia-based questions and, finally, I just had to agree - everyone else was fine with it, so there (no one said it like that, of course, it was just implied).

Freedom and Summer have been spending the past three months in a smaller pasture with Matt, the rooster, and a rotating cast of goats and potbellied pigs. They were getting to be a lot more rambunctious and ready for a new scene with bovine friends. Cattle are not like any other species when it comes to introducing new animals. Even though they are the largest animals here, they are by far the gentlest with each other. With any other introduction, we'd be on guard ready to intervene when things got too rough. Not so with cattle. The second Freedom and Summer were released, they became part of the herd. It's that simple.

Nicholas, the nearly two-year-old Jersey (also from auction), was overjoyed. Finally, cattle he can play with - at 12 and 13, Howie and Sadie are well past the age of "frolicking". Nicholas was extremely gentle with both calves and modified his head-butting to their small stature. Howie, not so much. When Freedom challenged Howie to a head-butting contest, Howie obliged and accidentally tossed Freedom a good three feet. Undeterred, Freedom came back for more. Sadie, who is from the dairy industry herself, was interested in sniffing and grooming the calves.

As I write this, all five of the cattle are up by the big barn, just hanging out. I spent time taking photographs of them and, as I left, both Freedom and Summer mooed to me - THEY STILL LOVE ME. This is good. Howie even took time out of his busy schedule to put his head on my shoulder and drool on me. How's that for love?

Now, I took way too many photos to share in this blog. But they are up on our flickr page, so you can see them in all their glory.
Summer and Howie touch noses
Nicholas waiting for Summer to play
Nicholas using Jedi mind tricks to try and get Summer to play
A frog (seriously, he's a frog) <--- WRONG! He's a toad, apparently. :)

Keeping cool

Most of the animals at the sanctuary are very heat sensitive. We don't blame them, not when the temperature gauge exceeds the 100 F mark (we're heat sensitive too!)

Some of the species are particularly unhappy in the hot sun. The larger pigs, for example, lack most of the sweat glands that help keep us humans a little cooler. Instead, they have to mitigate the heat by wallowing in water, getting mud caked on them (protects from sun burn and flies) and hide out in cool spots. Even when they do find a shady area, staff often rubs them down with a large dish-sized ice cube. Fans in the largest barn are on all day to help with air flow as well.

Chickens and turkeys have an awesome misting system that my camera said no to photographing. We also put out large bowls of water for the birds to soak their feet. Sometimes there are little squabbles over who gets the best soaking spot. And sometimes, the birds have to vie for mister space with human visitors - on today's tour, all the humans were hogging the misters for themselves!! It was 101 F so I couldn't blame them too much.

Rabbits are another heat sensitive species and they get frozen water bottles and frozen tiles to lay upon. The rabbits at the sanctuary really don't like water, so we cannot spray them down like we would for the pigs.

The cattle, goats and sheep handle the heat a lot better. I'm looking out at Howie and Sadie right now, both standing in the sun, chewing their cud and not at all bothered by the 100+ degree weather. I certainly don't want to be directly in the sun right now!

If you live in hot areas, please keep cool. Drink a lot of water, stay in the shade and minimize your exposure to the sun. Wear sunscreen - some of our pinkest pigs do, so you know it's awesome stuff (our pigs are totally stylish, cool creatures).

Benign predators?

Last week, a veterinarian was out to look at one of the goats. While she was here, we got to talking about end-of-life situations. The goat in question, Flo, is elderly with renal failure. She has weeks, maybe months left. While we try to gauge how content and comfortable she is by her behaviors, we are left in the dark to how she truly feels.

The vet made a comment that really struck me as strange. The vet called us benign predators because, when it comes down to it, we decide when an animal lives or dies.

At first, I almost agreed. Yes, we are these bipedal creatures wielding a lot of power. Right or not, we do decide when pain and suffering exceeds quality of life. We end their lives.

But then I rebelled against the argument. Majorly. Yes, humans act like predators. Our species slaughters and consumes 50 billion animals worldwide annually. In the United States, humans slaughter 10 billion land animals at a rate of 320 animals per second. It would be hard to argue that humans act like natural predators, with their large farms, mechanized operations, captive bolt guns, and large processing facilities. Most humans certainly do not hunt other species, instead preferring plastic-wrapped body parts to the whole body. And there is hardly anything benign about any predator.

Coming back to what sanctuaries do when it is time to end the life of a beloved animal. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, predatory about it. Obviously, we do not eat the sanctuary resident (eating prey is a big part of being a predator, no duh). No instinct drives us, like a predator, to chase and kill. Every decision to euthanize is agonizing. I mean, agonizing. There are quality of life discussions, meetings on deciding pain-level and overall happiness of the animal. It is not easy, there is no spur of the moment decision to destroy the life of any cow or chicken. Nothing is fun or exciting or exhilarating about euthanasia. It is a heart-breaking decision that, while at its core ends an animal's life, is never made because we want to end that life, because we somehow need their flesh to survive.

So while I agree that sanctuary animals are not truly free, I just cannot fathom calling our relationship with these animals as predator-prey like. Sanctuary residents receive medical care that wild animals do not. Their pastures are large but fenced. When they are hungry, they get extra food, no animal starves at the sanctuary. There are many benefits to being cared for as much as there are drawbacks. We do our best to find that balance between providing the "freest" life possible while also making sure the animals are safe and healthy (meaning they sometimes endure trips to the vet or isolation, neither they enjoy). Certainly we do insert human restrictions and concerns into their unique worlds, and maybe an argument can be made that that in of itself is unfair and wrong, but if given a choice of a kill floor and a sanctuary pasture, my guess is that those 50 billion slaughtered animals would have chosen a sanctuary, even if it meant a hoof trim now and then.

So here's your chance to make a choice. You can choose to be a part of a system that relegates animals to bits and pieces or you can choose to abstain from that cycle of cruelty. Being a predator in the wild is what it is, there is nothing glamorous, benign or endearing about it - it's about life and death for both hunter and hunted. Eating meat, drinking milk and eating eggs is not the same; we don't need them to survive nor do we need to be part of such a violent system of oppression. Going vegan fits perfectly with our biological system and our behavioral desire to be kind, compassionate creatures.

The sanctuary denizens are not alone and a small GV update

Yesterday, while out getting an awesome picture of Patty, I heard quite the ground squirrel ruckus and immediately gazed upwards to see what was what. About a 100' away from me, a juvenile hawk sat in a tree, trying to figure out the best way to hunt ground squirrels. I'm pretty sure the hawk is a Cooper's hawk (you ornithologists can tell me if I'm wrong).



Whatever he* is, he's beautiful. He was learning how to hunt on his own and, admittedly, it was hard not to cheer for the little colony of ground squirrels. None of us at the sanctuary enjoy the "seedier" side of the natural world. The hawk has to eat, of course.

Amazingly, even though the hawk could take out a full-grown white leghorn hen (who are the size of some of the adult ground squirrels), he showed an absolute disinterest in even flying over the chicken enclosure. I imagine part of that is there are a lot of ground squirrels, I mean A LOT. Both the chickens and ground squirrels also post sentries to monitor both the sky and ground for predators, so both species are on high alert.

The sanctuary residents do share the property with wildlife. Coyotes, bobcat, rattlesnakes, ground squirrels, a kajillion species of birds, mountain lion, deer, wild turkeys - all of them make their appearance from time to time. Fence lines mean nothing to them.

In all the years the sanctuary has been here, very few animals have been lost due to predation. It is a very real risk. Always and forever. We bring to this property species' who have a long history of being killed by other species. Everything we do, we try to mitigate those risks. For the most sensitive species, like the rabbits and poultry, we make sure their enclosures are extra secure, surrounded by predator-proof fencing with overhangs and rollerbars. Fences are dug down into the ground and the chickens/turkeys are always locked up at night (bunnies are in a 1,000 square foot enclosure). Young animals are never introduced until they are large enough to defend themselves.

We will maintain our high level of predator protection when we move all the animals to Grass Valley....which is one of the reasons it is taking a little longer than expected for the move. The fencing is vital in making sure the chickens and rabbits are safe and that all the other species have enough room to roam without going so far as to be really isolated. So we're taking it slow. I'm sure you appreciate that. I know the chickens and turkeys do. :)


*Or she, no offense intended. :)

A lesson on friendship

You're not supposed to have favorites, I know. Every animal at the sanctuary holds a special place in my heart, but (you knew it was coming) there are specific animals who I really adore. Patty is one. I'm so embarrassed to admit this, but I don't have any great photos of Patty. She's a black and white sow who is just not very photogenic. I've tried different lighting, different angles, different lenses, different everything and yet her pigmentation thwarts me at every turn. Her big floppy ears cover beautifully small eyes, making it all the more difficult.

But this isn't about how hard it is to photograph Patty.

This is about how a couple of days ago Patty woke up with an awful limp. I heard the animal care staff talking about her on the radio and immediately left my desk to check her out. Patty is a belted hampshire and, as such, has been bred to produce a lot of weight in a short amount of time ("meat" pigs are killed at six months old). Even though the pigs at the sanctuary are trim, their legs and hooves find it difficult to support 700-900 lbs of pig awesomeness.

When I saw Patty move, it was difficult. She had to fling her entire head up in the air to counterbalance the severe limp in her left leg. I crouched low and grunted loud, then softly in the friendly, almost airy way pigs do. And she responded, widening her mouth and making these precious breathy exhalations. Even amidst what was obviously a painful event, she was happy to see me. As we talked, another pig, Susie, sashayed up and paused by Patty, grunting her greeting.

I began to move slowly away from Patty to try and guide her up to the barn and a stall. She followed, uncomfortable. And then Susie became concerned. You could see her look at Patty and take it in, see her tense and relax and then she stood right in front of Patty, not letting her by. In my silly human way, I tried explaining to Susie that Patty needed to get to the barn to lie down. Susie was having none of that. She waited thirty seconds, then slowly moved forward, giving Patty another 10 feet to move forward. Then she would come up behind Patty and nudge her ever so gently ahead. After Patty moved another 15 feet, Susie raced ahead and forced Patty to stop. They repeated that until they were about 20 feet from the barn. The whole time Susie alternated between encouraging grunts to these odd, screechy cries of concern.

Patty went to a stall, nestling deep in its comfortable confines. Susie wandered off to rub her head on a post, clearly satisfied with her role. I marveled at how graceful Susie had been in her kindness, her simple stoic pause for Patty to regroup, her gentle prodding forward. Pigs can be incredibly selfish (read when food is around) but they are even more gregarious. They aren't perfect, of course, having bad days and quarreling with their herd-mates. That's all fine and normal. So are these friendships, where one finds comfort in the other.

Patty will be on stall rest for a few days. After some palpation and rotation, staff cannot tell whether Patty is just being tough or, for whatever reason, isn't exhibiting pain responses. If need be, she'll go into the vet next Tuesday with another pig and we'll do everything in our power to help her feel better. It's nice to know she has a caring friend to look after her when we cannot.