Over the past sixteen years I have experienced my share of loss on the farm. What I have noticed is that the feelings and emotions often arrive weeks before the death of one of our loved ones. Sometimes it is because the animal is unwell but other times, I intuit it and I reluctantly begin to prepare for the end. I find the anticipation of the loss is often harder then when the loss actually happens. In the past, I’ve wanted to avoid these feelings but the truth is, it’s next to impossible. So while these losses are deeply felt, I have learned to not only accept what is beyond my control but to appreciate the gift.
The gift I give to my non-human animal friends is to be with them and comfort them as they transition. At first it was a way of supporting my grief but overtime I have witnessed that holding space for someone who will soon pass away not only eases their experience but mine also. As I bear witness to those in their last days and hours, my connection to my dying friend deepens. And, as I stay present to all that unfolds, I deepen my connection to myself.
I have vivid memories of each loss I’ve experienced. Some are more visceral than others. When Shady and Finn passed, it was as if a part of me was torn away. And while I know they were released from their physical suffering, a part of me still wants them back.
Most recently I lost two beloved flock members, hens Peach and Amelia. Peach had been sick a few times but always seemed to bounce back. Then she had a run-in with a coyote and, a week later, landed in the talons of an eagle. Luckily I was nearby both times and was able to scare away the predators. She seemed to recover but trauma can weaken the immune system and within a few weeks she fell ill again. Each day I saw her lose more of the inner light that was her trademark and I knew the end was near. I spent more time caring and supporting her. On her last day I brought her outside to the grassy area to sit in the sun together. I talked quietly and shared my love for her as she gently slipped away.
Amelia was a surprisingly healthy and vibrant eight year old hen. Just weeks before she had followed me in the field for the blackberries I was picking for her. Named after Amelia Earheart she was independent and fearless, laying waste to the idea of the chicken stereotype. The Sunday before she passed, a client and I noticed she was hunched up in the corner and not eating. I brought her into the tackroom and enticed her with her favourite food but the following morning she had sunk into herself and I knew her passing was imminent. I stayed close by. I spoke to her and told her how special she was, and how loved and strong she had been over the years. I made eye contact with her so we could feel each other’s presence and then invited her to leave. Her breathing changed, then slowed, and with her head turned slightly and wing lifted, she took her last breath.
I am honoured that I was there for both Peach and Amelia, Shady and Finn, and the many other four-legged and winged friends that have passed. I don’t know with certainty how animals feel about or approach death. There are many theories and anecdotes but what I do know is that as hard as it is for me to say goodbye I trust that my presence had a part in making their transition smoother. That they were not alone. It would be something that I want when I die… no expectations, no pressure to change anything, just a friend, being present with me and with whatever happens … in the moment. What a gift.