Heartbreak

Life on the farm is certainly not all rainbows and rambling through the new mown hay. There are tough decisions, heartbreak, and loss in the mix. Thank you to everyone who reached out with your concern and advice for Daisy. We were all pulling hard for her over the past couple of weeks.

The hardest stories I’ve ever written for this column have all revolved around death on the farm. If that is not a topic for you this week, hold off until next week’s article. Yet, death and life are linked inextricably, and with one will always come the other. It is a circle, a cycle, and while it is never easy, it is part and parcel of tending to living beings.

Farming with compassion doesn’t allow us to hide death away in a hospital or deny that this is inevitable. Instead, we must find a way to live with the presence of death, to learn from it, and even in those difficult moments to invite death in order to end suffering when there is no cure. It is never easy, however, nor should it be.

We have a saying in our family that when it no longer hurts when an animal on our farm passes, then we shouldn’t be doing this anymore. Numbing out is not the answer, nor is seeing animal suffering as lesser than our own. No one likes butchering day, and we all work together to create an environment of the least suffering as possible in the process. When an animal is passing from old age or sickness, we do our best to help them be comfortable and comforted. There is a relationship there, which is essential to the role of stewardship and husbandry of the natural world in our care.

With the help of all the networking and advice we could find, Daisy seemed to be truly rebounding. She grew interested in treats and warm water, took herself for strolls outside while munching on brambles, and perked up her long, fluffy donkey ears. But the issues within her gut and also it turns out her feet flared again, and her condition crashed the day after I submitted the last article.

By midnight, Daisy’s situation had passed the tipping point, with her abdomen swelling with fluid and her pain levels horribly high, the humane choice was the difficult one—to put her down. We all cried. Everyone cried. The vet came for assessment, where he pointed out the belly fluid, and after the decision administered the shots. We didn’t leave her in her suffering, staying through her passing, reassuring her that we loved her, sorrowful that we were not able to do more.

That, perhaps, is the hardest part, wishing that you could have done more. Scientifically, more care potentially could have been available, but this would have included attempting to load Daisy into a stock trailer in negative double-digit weather and hauling her three hours away from home, alone, to a hospital. Donkeys (especially wild-born ones like Daisy) are known to have very poor tolerance of this type of stress, and it may have been just as likely that we would arrive to the vet hospital with a donkey who had already died literally of fright. It seemed a crueler solution than keeping her at home and doing the absolute best we could with the tools at hand.

Daisy had a wonderful life here on our farm as a guard donkey. Her sweet personality made her a most charming character. She adored Belle, our first donkey, who passed away a few years ago at the age of 39. They are now buried together—friends forever.

When an animal passes after a long life, it is a blessing. We’ve been gifted time to prepare for their death, given chances to make our loving goodbyes. When misfortune falls too soon, the grieving can be much harder, as we were not so prepared for this at this time. And, on a farm, life doesn’t go on hold for grieving. There are all the other animals still present who need our attentive care. We have to continue to stay present, working with our grief instead of holing up with it or pushing it away.

As hard as it all is, grief can also be a gift. It helps us realize how precious and how fragile being alive truly is. It reminds us not to take how things are in this moment for granted. So much can change so quickly, even when we least expect it. The lessons learned in the journey will help us be even better stewards of the lives in our care going forward. That is what the lessons in death ask of us, if we are open to listen.

This morning was bright and very cold. Even without a cloud in the sky, ice crystals were faintly raining down from the air. They caught the light of the morning sun, shining in a brilliant, rainbow-tinged sun dog amidst the frosted forest. “It’s a sun donkey,” Kara offered when she showed us the picture she took. “It’s Daisy.”

This week, we regroup, hug each other, pass the tissues, and carry forward. Here’s to beloved memories of Daisy. See you down on the farm sometime.