White creatures arrive for many reasons...like the cat that is a nurse

I have had a number of pure white animals come into my life-usually with magical stories that capture all of our imaginations and leave us pondering their initial beginnings. Often in the past, when I've written about them individually, someone always pops up and says,

They came for you, they are there to help you.

And this is a comforting thing to say, and hear. And I feel I can say that in each case, it has grown to be true-they do help me in ways I might not have predicted.

Of course, one of the more famous white animals to arrive at Apifera is White Dog, aka Benedetto. The story on how he got here has taken many twists and turns in my imagination, and yours. I have written about it many times so won't go into details on this post, but I can say that I do know without hesitation, Benedetto was meant to come to us for himself, to save himself...but he has also become intwined in our lives, and I rely on him here for many reasons. The obvious is he keeps the predators at bay, which right now means eagles that fly over head-he goes nuts ever since one took one of The Bottomtums. But he has another job, and that is to be pure in his intent with me.

I can't hide anything from Ben. And his eyes, don't hide much from me.

We have a ritual I've told you about-I look into his big dark brown eyes, and I say,

"Everything is okay, it is okay, right?"

I started this before we moved to Maine, during the weeks leading up to what would be a traumatic yet exciting move for all of us, and I was supposed to be the leader. I actually think I was a good leader for the animals, and Martyn, and I dealt to every detail of the trip, the move and the packing. But I would look White Dog in the eyes, and tell him, "It's okay, it's going to be okay, you'll see." I said it because I meant it, and I also knew that he and the others could pick up on the tiniest of sensations I might be emitting about stress over the move.

Now that we are here, it is so clear to me that one of the gifts I've given Benedetto, is Maine. He loves it here. He truly is in his element-the cold winter, less rain,, more snow...and he now has his area to protect, and Marcella has hers. They still come together when I let them have wolf play dates, but he is much more his own man now.

All the worry I had, wondering if White Dog would try to find a way to escape once in Maine...is gone. He has never tried, and out West, he would occasionally bolt on us. Not now. I would not put it past him, but he is just more settled here. Perhaps it is just the time has passed-we still don't really know how old he is so maybe he is just more mature. But I believe he is more,

in and of himself, something any of creatures wants, and needs to blossom and thrive, and be at peace.

And there is Noritsu. I saw his face on the shelter's website, and I couldn't shake it. He was actually at a shelter slightly farther away than our local county's shelter where all the elder cats have come from, so I pushed it out of mind. Then a couple other cats came our way, and I thought, okay, Noritsu was not meant to be with us.

But I went back, maybe two months later, and there he was again. And I felt compelled to adopt him, and I did.

I'm so glad. Because Noritsu has a very important job-he is a nurse. Not only does he nurse the cats that I must nurse by standing with me and reaching out to them, but he nurtures me. As I sat holding Laci as she was clearly dying, he came to be with me, immediately...Nurse Noritsu.

Oh I can hear the naysayers. He's friendly. He'd come to you no matter what, he just likes people.

No, it's more than that.

We don't know where Noritsu came from, we don't know anything about his back story, except that he is elderly. Perhaps he nurtured an elder man until their death...perhaps he had other elder animals in the house too. But when he came to Apifera, he checked it all out, sat for a couple days to get comfortable, and then...he just started being a nurse.

I like seeing an animal's true purpose coming through, and being utilized even in their older years.

My sweet nurse, Noritsu, you are very important to me. And you, White Dog, it is okay, isn't it?

Noritsue comes to me, as I hold Laci 

Always the nurse to me, Noritsu as I hospice Laci

Old Rudy passes on with grace

Old Rudy has died. It was sudden but graceful death. There was no indication in the past days that his time was coming. He did have trouble keeping weight on all winter and into summer, despite medications and vitamins, so who knows what was going on inside his thin body. But he spent his last days like any other, napping wit some casual grazing after breakfast, more napping and evenings in his favorite spot-the duck hut.

When it feels right, I capture these pre-death scenes in images, as I did last night. I like to share them as an homage to the life passing, but also to the death entering. Death is the balance of life. I think we humans are so out of touch with much of real life-that is, Nature–that of course we can't imagine death. I always am struck by the beauty of the animals around death, they simply acknowledge the situation, and continue with their normal habits–if they feel safe, of course. In the background, Marcella slept, confidant all was well. It was only when I carried the body out this morning that she became agitated. There are so many touching moments in a death scene like this-Stevie coming over, gently bending forward to smell the passing; or Raggedy Man looking up over the body–did he sense something there I as a human am not able too after thousands of years of my species closing out our once innate senses?

Last night I went to do chores and heard Rudy cry to me. He had cast himself in the duck hut. That was the first and last struggle he'd have. I got him out of the hut, upright and standing, but he could not hold his front end up. I was able to guide him to the main shade shelter, but he collapsed as we got there. He drank a bit of water and he sat upright for about twenty minutes, but his head was hanging low, his eyes were closing. Giving him the water reminded me of my mother, who died in 2013. The nurse had just helped her sip some water, and she died, with a smile on her face. Each death here revives my inner acknowledgment of my parents' deaths, making me feel more comfortable that they were in good hands and had everything they needed, just as this old goat did.

I sang him a short song and told him he would do fine in this next journey.

I don't know if I will, but I hope we do meet again, somehow, I told him.

There was that human desire to continue on somehow with all of the things we love about this realm-but we can't quite grasp what it will look like-because maybe it won't look like anything we know. Maybe there are sensations after death we can't grasp. It's those "spaces
in between" again, the reasons abstract painters paint.

When I returned with hay for the herd, Rudy was lying down, almost unconscious. His breathing was slow and calm, there was no leg twitching or straining of the neck, signs of death taking the body. I opened his eyes and I could tell he was close to the final breaths. I said my final goodbyes, covered his eyes with a light cloth to keep the flies off, and went back to be with Martyn. I shed some tears; I told Martyn it was a good death and he would be gone very soon, but that one of the things about my work here is to be open to walking away from a dying creature to give it space and peace. Each death is different, and each hospice has different needs. Rudy was really gone when I walked away, he had let go, and by me letting go and walking away, it was now up to his body to finally shut down. The animals around him had acknowledged him. They understood the situation and were okay with it.

As sad as I was, and surprised, I was also happy for him. To go so quickly is such a gift to any creature, including a human. We can all hope for this death, surrounded by our home comforts be it hay or bed, conscious until the last moments of our time here doing whatever it was we liked doing-in Rudy's case that was eating, napping and grazing.

Old Rudy came to us with his long time mate Tasha Teats. Their original owner sent them to New Moon Farm Goat Rescue after her husband had died, as she felt she could not care for them properly. They were very arthritic, and Tasha was worse; she died shortly after arriving here. Rudy reminded me a lot of Old Man Guinnias, hard hooves to fill, but Rudy had a personality of his own. He was a gentleman and liked people. He was not a loner but preferred to be alone in his beloved duck hut. For some reasons, he was a chicken magnet, right up until the moment he died as you can see in these photos. He had a long beard and despite his very crippled legs, continued to roam the fields every day. I will miss him, he was a greeter, always bleating to me when he knew I was around.

He went out as he lived.

Ezra finally lets go

Ezra's body took a long time to shut down.He passed around dusk yesterday. His stimuli and reactions showed a body without a spirit, and for a body that was so malnourished and elderly, he hung on much longer than any other goat I'd witnessed die in my eleven years here.

It was an uncomfortable few days for me and took its toll. While I feel his spirit was not there, it is hard to watch the silent struggle. If I'd known what I know today, I might have acted differently on Friday. But I am not going to beat myself up-I did my best for him. He was really not present for the past 24 hours.

I sang him my standard, "Over the Rainbow" but also opted to sing some "Felling Groovy" renditions. Sir Tripod Goat and Old Rudy continued to eat normally by his side in the duck hut, and in a strange way, Sir Tripod Goat seems to have warmed up to me more over the past weekend, perhaps he senses for real now, that I am caring for them all.

I think Ezra and Mrs. Aster, and the entire herd that was taken off the property where they had lived for their entire lives are the saddest cases I've dealt with. But this morning I think there is something nobody ever really said, and I feel it strongly. I always felt Ezra arrived here a broken man. We all surmised how hard it was to lose his herd, slowly, through neglect-some died in front of him, some were put down later. One by one, they died or left. But, perhaps the real loss for Ezra was when the humans who cared for him physically failed. At one time they truly care for the herd. They had grown elderly too and suffered with dementia. The caretaker did not understand how to care for the goats. Who knows how long that went on, I don't, nobody does. But it was evident inside the home the herd had been loved and cared for once.

I think perhaps that was the first huge loss for Ezra, when the elderly couple failed. Ezra's sense of everyday normalcy was lost.Animals like and need consistency in their environments to feel safe. When the humans got dementia he lost that daily safety net.

I think Ezra was tired and worn out. His body was ravaged of nutrition and spirit for enough time that he couldn't pull through. If I could get him to the spring and get some weight on him, I thought. But that was not the way his body dealt with it.

Even in the end when he was still aware of me, I sensed a goat that was wanting to let go, but had had to let go so many times, and just wasn't sure if this letting go meant he'd end up all over again in a new place.

I am just so relieved for him. And Martyn is relieved for me. He watched me all weekend, in and out of that hut, reassuring me I was doing my best.

Transported with old goats in a duck hut

Yesterday Ezra was clearly declining. He did manage to come out of the duck hut to be in the other shelter, but lay down and never moved. He continues to not eat and has physical symptoms of a life ending. By day's end, I cleaned up his soiled bottom and carried him into his duck hut. He likes it in there and always has, it's intimate and safe, secluded without being out of eyesight of the others.

I did feedings around five yesterday evening. It was pouring, has been for days. I crawled into the duck hut to be with Ezra. He was reclining, not cast, but definitely in a position not normal for a healthy goat. He was very calm. His heart beat was very erratic. Every now and then, his hind legs would kick out, a sure sign of the body shutting down. But his kicks were very weak.And he would let out little sighs about every ten minutes.

Within time, Sir Tripod Goat came in and sat to our left, and Old Rudy came in and went to my right. The hut is about 6 feet long and 4 feet high. It meant a lot that Tripod came in, as he is still figuring out who I am and if he trusts me.

So there we were, the four of us, three old crippled goats, and one middle aged lady goat, sitting under a tin roof in the rain. It was so peaceful. This is how death should be I thought, but rarely is.

I asked Ezra if he had seen Heaven yet, or his old mates. Then I asked him to look for my parents. I think the feeling of being in that hut, in the rain, cocooned and dry while the outside world got wet and went on and on without me in it, I think that just took me back to my little fort in the sumac bushes in my old homeland of Minnesota where I grew up. I would often go to that hut, on my own, maybe take the poodle, and sit for hours. But I had a warm house and dinner or cookies waiting for me when I was ready to go back to the house. I think that duck hut, surrounded by my current mates, reminded me of that.

When I left the hut, I said my good byes to Ezra. I really felt that was it for him. But I felt so relieved he was so calm and peaceful and did not appear to be in discomfort, no teeth grinding, or moving about. I went and checked on him at 9pm before I went to bed and was surprised he had repositioned himself to be more upright. I was really shocked.

I expected him to be gone. But this morning he was laying upright, in a pretty normal position. He still was all messed up and I cleaned him up again. He refused water and food, all day. He has not moved all day from that spot.

I am once again reminded that death can take time. The body has to shut down, often slowly. I know when a person is in hospice they explain to the family that the dying person often rebounds a little, and you think, "Oh, maybe he won't die," but they do a day or days later. I think of the body as all these little bits of energy getting turned off one by one as we die. When my father was near death in home hospice, my mom said he sat up one morning and said, "I'm still here." He died a few days later.

So I won't make a prediction. But Ezra is lowing checking out...it appears.

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Ezra lands safely and I am just a conduit

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We awoke at three a.m. on Friday, and left at 3:50 to drive up to Arlington, some 6 hours away. We had breakfast with Northern Mother - a real treat, usually when we pick up a goat, it's "Hi, gotta run!" and head back. But we had a nice catch up talk over breakfast, then packed the old goat up and headed back to Apifera, making it home around six. As we've gotten older, the 12 hour drive nearly kills us, but never does.

This is the 16th elderly, crippled goat we've adopted from New Moon Goat Farm Rescue. I just can't imagine a life that didn't have any of these elders in it, or New Moon. Ezra is settling in well. He has gravitated tot he lower Misfit village-he told me very clearly that is where he preferred for now. I had him in the upper barnyard for the first night, let him explore and he head down that way, and he kept returning there. I don't know if he was attracted tot he outdoor huts which he might be used to, versus the enclosed barns. He also feels safe with Stevie. Man, that Stevie-talk about a healing presence.

Time and time again, people ask me why I keep doing this. After all, some of the elders don't live long-they lived in neglect somewhere for months or years, hanging on, and when they arrive at a safe place, they let go. Some don't, and fight on to a healthier state. I have a stock answer for the question now: "I don't know why, but I feel called to do it, I feel comfortable doing it and I like doing it."

Sometimes I see a creature in need of adopting, and I step away from the computer. But often they stick with me for days. Floyd was like this, Guinnias for sure. Sometimes the ones that stick with me and then come here to live are the ones that die within a short time-Lofa was like this, as was Floyd. Honey Boy. Aunt Bea to name some. I had picked out one of Ezra's herd mates weeks ago, but he died within a week of arriving at New moon, he was the worst off of the bunch and it is such a blessing he died in love and care.

I guess what I'm trying to explain is-I don't think I'm doing this alone. Universal forces seem to use me as a conduit in many cases. I can see there are eye rollers out there, but i truly feel and believe this. I don't think every Misfit comes this way, but many do. I just want to be open to being of service to the ones that need companionship as they die. It is not a life for everyone. I don't consider myself a 'rescuer" and balk at he term. I consider myself a conduit of service-for all creatures and that includes people.

And I think my work as an artist and writer are also conduits of service-for healing, joy, grieving and introspection.

I think being with any creature at the beginning of their lives is truly a miracle-so many physical things have to work and come together to create life. It is astounding in both animals and people when a baby pops out-even if it is ants hatching eggs. But when you come into the world, there is at least one other being with you-a mother ship of some kind to grab you, feed you, hold you, touch you. You and that mother enter your life together. And as you grow, you can share that moment somehow. You have photos of first steps, first breaths, and stories from your mother if you are lucky.

But death is a solo journey after your last breath. I've always been fascinated with death. It doesn't scare me. I don't think it is helpful to see life and death as yin and yang, but rather as a continuum. So many people seem terrified of death, and when it comes to the death of an animal, many on the social media platforms seem to think it is the absolute worst outcome. I have seen many good deaths, and some bad ones. We all hope for a good death for our loved ones, our pets, and for ourselves. But being present at any death is, for me, helpful-not only for the dying but for those left behind. I guess I should say it is helpful for the dying if the caretaker comes at it without drama in their heart. Death is drama, I guess, but I mean that I always try to enter a hospice situation of an animal with calm, because that calm emits onto them. An animal doesn't need me blubbering over them at this time. Of course, there can be tears, but ears can be shed in calm, sobbing can be done over a dead body. I think the most traumatic event I had here with the Misfits was not being able to get Floyd up, and having to cover him with my own body to try to keep him warm, watching the dusk come, waiting and hoping for Martyn to arrive, which he did-then having to drag him with the tractor due to the hill, and his weight, it was horrible. I kept telling him it would be okay, but I know he sensed my fear. I regret that as a care taker-but you do your best.

Years ago I realized there was this entire thing called "hospice". I was young, in my thirties and thought,

"Someday, I'd like to work in that area, somehow."

And here I am. I certainly didn't plan it. I know when Old Man Guinnias came to Apifera, as our first old creature, something clicked inside me. The fact that he had been relinquished to a goat rescue by his family as he entered his elder years, just grabbed me. He arrived at 15-very old for a goat, and lived to be 21.

But I'm not done. I still want to do better at bringing people together with The Misfits-elders, grieving people, wheelchair bound or blind people-all to commune with the animals that once been neglected. I've done much of this in small ways, one on ones, but I want to do more. I will continue to work towards that in the coming months and years. I will do my best to be that conduit.

Waving to the sun

Samuelle sits for his final portrait waving to the light, or me...or......

Post Script 5/6/14: We got some of the lab work back. It is definitive that Samulel was suffering from cancer, and it is helpful to know this. We could not have done better for him and his suffering is over.

Samuelle flew off, with our help around ten this morning. I am so relieved for him. Before I took him to the vet for his final leap, I brought him to the light of the windows so he could possibly see Earth one more time, or something that might look familiar. He spent the night in a crate next to me for safety, and it was a hard night. While he probably wasn't seeing well in the end, I do think there were certain sensations-such as bright light- that he could respond too. I sat him in a familiar chair so he could look out a window, and took his final portrait.

He raised his head and paws up, and moved his paw in waving fashion. As a writer, and one with a vivid story telling imagination, it is tempting to believe he was waving goodbye to the light, or me. But I guess I could then be accused of...Disneyizing my life. The scientists in the mix or pragmatists will say he was responding to stimuli.

Well, I was there, and I felt it was both. I took him out and put his face in some leaves, and then off we went to the vet.

What a fighter, but he was ready for this journey, as were we. After he was gone, my vet and I examined his interior mouth and throat again. The roof of his mouth had become more swollen, and the lower throat was hard instead of soft. We really feel like there was most likely a growth of some kind pressing down on his nasals and entire left side. The lab tests might tell us more clues, but for now, there is no definitive answer, except that he was fine cat who lived many years longer because he happened to walk onto Apifera instead of another surrounding property that might not have had the means to help him.

Did he come here because he had heard the stories of this place, or did I somehow invite him without knowing, without words-just as I have always invited many creatures here before I have laid eyes on them. Some of you might now be saying - now that is really story telling, but I know for a fact it has happened many times.

Goodbye Samuelle Noel! You were the most brave soldier. May you take off your boots now and lay in the sun, the same sun that will shine down into my studio where we so often spent the day together.

Samuelle's final Sunday

Huck once again acts as hospice assistant with me while Samuelle Noel lays in his basket.

Samuelle sits as I type in his basket, Huck nearby in case he is needed. We listened to Garrison Keillor this afternoon and he had a poem in honor of their family cat who had died, and he also sang lovely little songs to the departed cat. Coincidence? No, it was a lovely tribute to Sam to. I couldn't have done it better than Garrison.

He and I have fought a hard battle. What a soldier he has been-over the years fighting off so many chronic issues- from deteriorating foot pads to respiratory infections. When I took him to the vet last Wednesday, I was hopeful, I felt we could do more. His attitude was of a cat that was willing and ready to keep living. But we know more now, even though we still have the lab tests. We know his upper mouth was raw to the bone-so we took lab test for fungal and bacteria so we could be sure to have the right meds for one, the other, or both.

But once he started swelling at the eye [the red you see in the right eye is actually his inner eyelid that has been pushed upward due to swelling] we began to sense we might be facing more than an infection. When I left him at the vet's for xrays and care, I assumed I'd bring him home in a day. But Sam had a seizure on Friday morning. Because my vets know me and what I do here, they felt okay about me bringing him home to Apifera Friday night. I wanted to be there for him if he seizured again, since the clinic isn't staffed after hours like most day clinics. The thought of him alone in a crate and going into another seizure and maybe dieing alone, I felt he deserved more from me. But I questioned myself and the vet-maybe he'd want to be alone.

It is a fine line we walk with these stray cats and Misfits in need. What is best for the animal, at that moment? That is what I always ask myself, and the vet, and try to push away the human emotion. Animals react differently to illness and trauma. For Samuelle, if he was in the barn, he'd probably go hide away in the woods until it was all over. He's been in the house now since his illness returned this past January because he was a sitting duck for a raccoon-you could hear him a mile away with his breathing-and while I always was extra fond of him in the barnyard, once you bring an animal in and care take it, the relationship shifts yet again. For the few who have met Sam, they know what a sweet cat he is, a very affectionate fellow who talks in short sentences, and I've become very attached to him. I will be sad to see him go on. But he has had a good life here, one that might have been much shorter had he not walked onto the farm that Christmas in 2009.

So I brought him home on Friday and by Saturday morning I still had hope for him. He ate for me from a tube, took his meds well and still acted like he was present. He was trying. But he was also acting a bit damaged, as in neurologically. The vet and I began to discuss the possibility that he had a tumor or something pressing in his head that was causing some of these symptoms-like walking like he had stroked, sitting in corners in a daze, acting like he just wasn't brain right.

I now know I did the right thing bringing him home. He seizured again this morning. I had him in a crate last night for his own safety, and was able to hold him and be there for him. It subsided, but I knew this is the middle of the end. If he should make it through the night, I have no doubt the right thing is to help him on is way tomorrow at the vet. For now, I have very strong pain meds for him and he is basically in a state of constant nap. When he does arouse a bit, it is temporary, and he really can't walk right.

I want to thank so many who have bought art at the sale, or donated, and keep buying as there are plenty of vet bills to come this week with Pino and others. I was okay spending that $870 because he deserved one more chance and we just weren't sure what we were dealing with any more-we all wanted to get closer to an answer that might have helped him. I would not have done it differently-it is not wasted money in my mind. Sometimes you just don't get an answer, and you are left with knowing you did your best and so did the animal.

Many of the Misfits are aging, and the original semi feral colony of 25 that we inherited in one way or another when we moved in is shrinking. Apifera is shifting too, so am I. I'll just wait it out and keep doing what I do. I'll keep doing my best.

New work...guided by Old Man Guinnias

I recently finished a nice project for University of Notre Dame magazine - four separate illustrations accompanying narrative articles.

I loved all the pieces, but I wanted to share this one and how it evolved. One of the articles was about a man who worked in hospice. He came to the conclusion that hospice work meant seeing the essence of another person and allowing the dying person to share in his essence. I had sent a sketch of an older woman emanating colors and pattern entwining into a man. I also sent some finished examples of past work, and one of those was a piece I did a couple weeks ago after Old Man Guinnias pasted away in the night. The art director found that piece so spiritual and wondered if it could be used as a starting point for this article.

At first I had an old woman on a cloud, but then realized the woman was still earthbound, though fading. But her faithful companion was floating, waiting to give her a special apple from the trees of the sky, where she'd return to her special chair.

Thank you, Old man, one more gift from you.

When old and blind hospice the young

There are twenty one days left to fund my Kickstarter project, "Misfits of Love". I'm very proud I have almost reached 50% and am over $4,000 in pledges to help my stories of the old and adopted animals of Apifera enjoy a wider audience. There is still a long way to go, so please pledge now, or share with as many as you can. And thank you to all who have helped! One of the stories in "Misfits" is "Hospice of a Lamb", shared in this post.

Hospice of a lamb

To see the slideshow of the all the photos from Hospice for a Lamb, visit this secure link.

She was just 4#. I had secretly named her Little Daisy, which is a mistake. One should never name a lamb before a few days, you learn that. But then again, maybe this one time it was important I named her. Maybe something much bigger than me, or Apifera, knew what was in store for that little creature and knew naming it would mean something to both the dying and the watcher of the dying.

Everything seemed fine at seven AM, roughly 19 hours after Daisy's triplets were born. While it is always exciting to see triplets, it is entwined with an element of dread. Many issues can arise with them - weak lambs, not enough milk, a weak ewe or milk fever. We've had a healthy set of triplets in the past from Rosie, but lost all six triplets in '09.

So with the triplets looked good in the morning, all milking a bit, tails wiggling, I felt okay. Daisy is an excellent mother too. Maybe that was one of my mistakes, not taking charge right away and tube feeding the tiny little ewe, only 4#. I check my lambs every two hours the first day for their tongue temperature, and if it's warm, I'm happy.

What happened from 7 AM to 9 AM is a secret of the universe, something no one will truly know. But I found her listless. The big boy was eating, the middle brown boy was sleeping. Sleeping day old lambs can look dead, believe me. So at first when I saw her, I didn't think anything was wrong. But I decided to give her another squirt of vitamin drench since she's so small, and her little body was like a slightly alive rag doll. I rushed her into the house, encouraging her to stay with me. I tube fed her and was careful not to get it into her lungs. I had initial hopes, but I knew she wasn't going to make it. And she didn't. She died surrounded by hospice team of an old one eyed pug, a concerned lab and a kitten that knew only too well what it meant to be saved.

After she died, I decided to tube feed both boys as a precaution, thinking it might be a milk issue. Arriving at the barn, the brown boy was now looking dopey, but better than his sister had. I thought I could save him. After tubing him, I knew he wasn't going to make it, so returned him to Daisy. He died soon after.

This is part of shepherding. I'm proud to say that I was calm and remembered how to tube a lamb without panic. I also told them to "go on now", which I think is a gift to the dying. I had tried and I knew they both tried as much as their bodies could.

The vet felt it was not a milk issue, said I did everything in my power and that triplet births can be stressful and create things you can't control. We played the 'If I had done this sooner" game, maybe they would have lived. Or maybe they would have lived and died a week later.

As the little lamb ewe lay near the fire, with her hospice team nearby, I went for my camera. I wondered if it was ghoulish to photograph the scene of near death. But I wanted to and wondered why I wanted to. I've been thinking of that all day- why did I need and want to document the moment, and was it worthy of her short life.

A creature of any kind, any kind, can touch a human life and reach deep into their best parts and say, "I know I'm little, and dying, but you cared to take pictures of my beautiful ears. You let me be warm. I could hear you too."

Her ears were so beautiful, much like the hair of one of my felted creatures.

Togther again: we lose Gertie

While this is a sad time, it is full of hope and possibility. A leaf falls and is eaten by worms, a father dies and his heart returns in memories and dreams, and an old goat dies and helps nourish the pumpkins. She whispers, "Go on, help someone else, you did your best with me."

Gertie has died.

I laid her to rest in the pumpkin patch next to her life time companion, Georgie, who died ten days ago. >

Gertie had fallen a couple weeks ago, and I knew her elderly days were numbered. I thought I was losing her then, but got her to rebound, and all this past two weeks, she was up and eating grass, getting around. But this past week, it was getting harder and harder for her to get up, and finally one morning, she didn't, and I found her struggling on her side. I knew it was her day to die. I've seen enough now to know it. I propped her up in a small corner she liked, and wrapped her in a horse blanket, then some hay to cover her since it was very cold. I surrounded her with two intact hay bales so she wouldn't be able to roll on her side. And then I waited. Three hours into the day, I felt it was best to euthanize her, since I knew it would be about 12 hours before she'd finally succumb to the inevitable- the rumen was unable to clear itself properly, the fluid was building up in her lungs, the heart and other organs were stressed, and eventually, she'd suffocate from fluid. It took Georgie 12 hours to die. I didn't want Gertie to go through it.

But all three of my vets, all at different clinics I use, were unavailable. I didn't want to put her through a bumpy drive into town. I checked her every hour, each time she was weakening, but still able to rally when I arrived, to make one sad, painful bleat- she was uncomfortable to say the least. By 4 pm, I simply asked the skies to take her, please, "You're going to take her anyway, let her go now." But the skies had their way.

I remembered the horse blanket I had in the barn, brand new, gifted for Giacomo, and never had the chance to use it with him. But for a 30 degree day in the barn, it was what I needed. Gertie was plenty warm from her hay and blanket, but the horse blanket kept us both warm together. I lay with her, literally, waiting, telling her stories, talking about how wonderful it was to have had her with us, and told her it would be okay soon. I was doing my best, I told her.

By 6pm, I felt her go somewhat unconscious, not responding to stimuli, but still breathing. I was freezing and went in to warm myself and have dinner. I returned around 8 pm, thinking she'd be unconscious and somewhat out of discomfort. But when Martyn and I entered the stall, she rose her head, and let out one last call, muffled in fluid. It was horrible. Foam was coming out her mouth. She was close to death, drowning. I cried, cried! "I'm so sorry! " and as she let her head fall into my one hand, I put my head to hers, and I gently covered her nostrils. She was dead in 30 seconds.

It was the hardest thing I ever did. It was the most profound thing I ever did. I felt very raw for hours, into the night. Just last week I talked to my equine vet about learning better ways to put an animal out of misery in emergency situations on the farm when a vet is unavailable. We ruled out guns. Overdoses are risky. There are few options left.

I did my best, little Gertie. She knows it. My only regret is I should have acted sooner. Even though I was with her, she suffered so much. What a soldier she was!

Oddly, a friend had come to visit the day after Georgie died two weeks ago and brought me two heart rocks for Giacomo's grave. She had no idea Georgie had died that day. So I told her I'd place one at Giacomo's and one on Georgie's grave. How prophetic it was she arrive with two heart stones instead of one, I told her. I hadn't had time to place the rocks, but when Gertie died, I realized they were met for these two little ladies, old, worn down and crippled, but very loving right to the last moments.

This morning, Old Man Guinnias switched places, and went to sleep in the corner that Gertie had died in.

Come Spring, I plan to adopt more seniors from New Moon Goat Rescuewhere Guinnias, Gertie and Georgie were from. To everyone who have sent animal crackers and donations in the past years to the Old Goats of Apifera, there will be more to come.

Good-bye, old lady

It is with shock, and sadness, that I write this post.

Georgie, one of Apifera's senior pygmy goats, died on Christmas night.

She was very old, and crippled, but just that morning I had filmed her, contently eating hay in her stall, for a holiday movie I had made for family. It's hard to believe she died later that night, for there were no signs of distress.

And it was Gertie, her compadré she was adopted with, who had fallen ill last Monday. Gertie rebounded, and we suspected an upset stomach. These two old ladies had neglected feet for years, so as they aged, their bodies became more crippled. If you take an animal that has been dwarfed, and then add a handicap of not being able to walk a lot, sooner or later, the rumen will get blocked, or the heart will be asked to do work it physically can't do anymore. We suspect that since Georgie walked very little, her body and organs just couldn't function well anymore, and perhaps her lungs had filled with fluid, and that would have also compromised her heart. There was no sign of distress that morning, no sign of pneumonia or bloat, no feed changes, no poison items about.

Oddly, when I look back on it, the day before she died, Gertie had spent a lot more time on her own away from Georgie, and even seemed to sleep away from her those last two nights. I think she knew. Animals sense death in another creature, if it is pending.

I came to the barn at 5pm Christmas night, and Georgie got up to take the handful of pellet I always gave her, but she fell, her front legs [usually her only working appendages] caved on her, and she went into a sort of a spasm. She could not stand. Within a half hour, I was able to get her to sit up, rather than lie on her side, and I massaged her sides which helped her burp. We checked her three times through the night, and all three times she was upright, looked uncomfortable, but she wasn't splayed out or thrashing. No teeth grinding. And she drank water when I brought it to her, she was not dehydrated. The only odd behavior, now sad to think about, was she kept making little bleats to me, and if I quit rubbing her head, she'd bleat again. To me it was a sign of stress or pain, but perhaps a bedside farewell to her companions. I considered bringing her into the studio where I could sleep by her all night, but I am believer that animals want to be in their familiar environs, and that large hay stall was her home, and her goat friends were there. The sounds of the sheep next door was what she knew. On my next trip to the barn, she was dead.

I believe in long weeping periods over a dead animal, if I'm so inclined. It's purging for me, and a way to show my emotional sadness at their passing. I sat with her little crippled body in my lap, and wept. Oddly, Gertie did not attend, but Old Man Guinnias did. I am so glad I spent time with her, and the others, each morning. She only had one year with us after we adopted her from New Moon Goat Rescue [where Guinnias is from too]and it was a honor to have her spend her final days here. Georgie was a sweet, sweet little goat, very kind and gentle, not bossy, not a trouble maker, just an old lady goat doin' the best to get to the feed dish.

I buried her this morning in the pumpkin patch. I saw Gertie there later today, nibbling on grass.

Hang in there, Jane

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, Jane is not well, and I am assuming she is egg bound, something I've never dealt with. So the last 24 hours I've spent giving chicken baths, inserting olive oil drenches in various chicken parts, and basically asking the large online chicken network for opinions. Yesterday I took these pictures when she first showed signs - limp wings, eyes closed, dull, not eating...and a large egg shape swelling below her vent.

After hours of studying chicken anatomy, I don't understand how that swelling can be a stuck egg, since it is below the canal that the egg would come out. I'm concerned the swelling is from something going wrong in the canal below her egg tube, the name of which I've forgotten, starts with a c.

Anyway, Jane and I are are bravely forging ahead. She seems to like the warm soakings, and tolerate the finger probes in her vent - sorry, this is a farm emergency so one must talk about probing chickens. I have her separated, in a crate, and she is residing in the Ward room, where the old goats live. Edmonia Lewis has been pecking her, so I will keep her crated excpet for sunning outings. And she is eating eggs and yogurt, slowly, but she is still eating. If any of you have experience with this, feel free to chime in. Many of you already have on Facebook, and thank you for that.

In a nutshell, it's frustrating to not always know what the problem is, but with chickens, even if you did, there is often nothing you can do. In the meantime, she is cared for, and safe, and I'm happy she seemed a bit more alert today, but obviously uncomfortable.

Jane is one of the Three Janes, and I'm very fond of her Barred Rock personality. I'm still hoping, but cringe on each walk to the barn. Hang in there,Janey.

We lose Rosie

Rosie died last night.

Post Note: We came to call it "The Spring of Death". In 2009 we fought our first fight with Ketosis and lost two treasured ewes, Rosie and Coral Bell, along with all 6 triplets they carried. The posts leading up to this one will tell you the struggle.

She was progressively getting weaker all day and I knew her time was near. Her breathing was slower, and she could not swallow well. She showed no signs of pain. She was still coherant most of the day, but by late afternoon she was pretty much in a state of sleep, occasionaly opening her eyes, or a twitch here and there - a clear sign her body was slowly shutting down. The little son who lived so she would die is gaining strength, and is wobbly but on his feet. I brought him out to the barn for the day and he stayed cuddled up with her all day until I brought him back in the house. I took this photo and imagine she died within a few hours, as is this how I found her this morning.

I sat with the two of them for an hour or more yesterday, Rosie's head cradled on my lap, while I said my final goodbyes and thank you's to this magnificant mother, herd leader and friend. She was our first sheep. While Coral's death left a huge impression, Rosie's death leaves a hole.

But it is time to move forward. We had healthy twin ewes from Blue on Saturday, and Daisy should lamb soon. Then we are done for the season. We have learned. Tomorrow is my 51st birthday. I feel 90 after the last 8 days, but it will be a day of peace for the farm, as our girls will all be buried, safe. And that little boy of Rosie's lives on - he is here for some reason.

Rosie, it was such an honor, all of it.

Survivor

Yesterday at 1pm Rosie's water broke. I assisted her a little bit easing the first lamb out, but things went ok for her. The first lamb was presented properly, but sadly she was stillborn. I even gave her mouth to mouth and a heart massage, but she was long gone. The second lamb was alive, a big chocolate boy. He was a lot less stable than a lamb should be, but he was alive. The third lamb, a girl, was also still born. Rosie licked her boy the best she could, but was very weak. I helped with the drying and cleanup. She had no milk to give, a little in one teet, but she was unable to stand. I knew I had to do my first foray into 'tubing', where a small catheter is pushed down to the lamb's stomach. The vet had given me a crash course, and now was my big debut. And I did fine, I was so relieved. [For the non shepherd out there, it's crucial to get colostrum in the lamb within 30 minutes].

I wrapped him in warm towels, but within 20 minutes knew this wasn't going to do for him. He needed a fire to get his body temp up. Within an hour of bringing him in the house, I was able to warm him well. We need to keep him in the house until he can really stand well, and he's way behind on that score. Most of our lambs are up and atom within 20 minutes or so. This little fellow can stand as of this morning, but can't walk real well. We all sat around the fire into the evening, and I finally was able to drink a couple glasses of good wine since I wouldn't be trekking to the barn every hour. I had done all I could for Rosie, and could only wait to see how she made it through the night. Huck and Billy were wonderful nurses, licking the lamb through out the night. I figured this was good for him, since he missed it from his mother. Huck has this expression all the time now, like, "Is the baby up? Should I help with the baby?"

Since the little guy wasn't walking, and he needed feeding every 2 hours, I slept on the floor and had him at my side on his mat. What a sweetheart, he slept well all night. I fed him him every couple hours. He'll need TLC for awhile, and I really hope we can pull him through.

This morning, Rosie was on her side, not good. I revived her a bit with her calcium shot, and vitamin injections and her energy cocktail. She's very weak, but is not in the pain Coral was, probably because there was no damage to her uterus. She appears very depressed. I've been giving her massages, and she is in an area where her little 4 day old granddaughters sit with her, and frolic around like kids too,, unaware of the seriousness of her condition. In the nearby stall, with window access, is Blue, Coral's daughter, who is in labor as I write. On the left of Rosie's stall is Daisy, her daughter who is about to lamb too. AS I nursed Rosie this morning, it reminded me of days of old, when we human families took care of our dying, but allowed life to just perk a long too. This is how one should die, I thought, in their own element, with the smells, sounds and beings around them that they know.

I'm tired. I want to twitch my nose and make my old flock come back, healthy. I've learned so much, and there is more to learn. I'll fight for Rosie until it's over, and maybe with luck, we'll win the fight together. But she's very weak, she gave that one baby boy everything - so he is very special creature.He must have stories to tell me, or nature would not have given him that first breath.

Suffer no more

I was with her when she was born, and I was with her as she died. She was five years old and had given us 6 healthy lambs in the past 2 years. She was daughter to Rose and Joe Pye Weed, and was head-ewe-in-waiting. A real loss for our farm.

Coral Bell had suffered enough, and was euthanized today at 12 noon. The vet came and immediately agreed she was in constant suffering, and was not going to recover from her ordeal. She also most likely had a torn uterus and liver damage. I spent 2 hours in her stall last night, and pretty much thought she would be dead when I came out in the morning. But she was still hanging on, groaning with every breath. It was gut wrenching to watch.

I let Audrey, her 2 year old daughter, and mother-to-be any day, come in the stall this morning. She sniffed around Coral, and then casually left. Coral had not bleated since she went down on Thursday, but when Audrey left the stall, Coral turned her head, obviously painful, and let out a very weak bleat. It was beyond touching.

We will bury her next to her three triplets on the lavender hill.

In the meantime, the vet induced Rosie, and has hopes for her recovery. We will hope too. He also gave me a big, kind pep talk which I greatly needed.

Some crusty old guy once said to me, "Life and old age aren't for sissies. Neither's farming."

A shepherd's lament

In this our fifth lambing season, we have been hit head on with tragedy. I'm still reeling from last night's events, but I want to write this entry so that my mistakes and lessons might help other shepherds out there. And I want everyone to send energy, healing, prayers - whatever your inclination- up into the sky for Coral Bell, a very brave sheep.

In the past four seasons, we've had smooth deliveries and healthy ewes and babies. Last Thursday afternoon, I noticed that Coral Bell laid down in the barnyard. I had put the pregnant ewes there so during the day I could watch for any signs of labor starting. When Coral laid down, I thought, "Good, she's probably going to lamb soon", and I noticed she got up and down a couple times, another early sign of pending lambing. I went out to the barnyard to gather the ewes up and saw what I thought was the start of a birth sac coming out of Coral. Put her in her lambing stall, but realized it was not a birth sac, it was what I assumed was the dreaded 'prolapsed vagina'. This can happen when a ewe is carrying an extra heavy load, and Coral was bigger than any ewe we've ever had, and much bigger than her last 2 seasons.

So I immediately did more internet research on prolapsed vagina. And I called the sheep vet to ask a phone opinion. He told me it was not an emergency at that point, as a ewe can lamb with one, and hers was not as severe as they can be.

I went out to check on her in a few hours, and within a very short time her condition had deteriorated. She was listless, head and neck down [stretched out in front of her, with her chin on ground]. Her expression was a dazed look, her eyes were dull, her ears expressionless. And she was grinding her teeth. She was off feed, which can be a normal sign of pending delivery, but I knew her condition wasn't right. Things happened fast, it was early evening, and we weren't sure what to do. I kept thinking it was related to her heavy load, and that she was in early stages of labor. By morning, she was totally listless, and had no energy to get up, or raise her head. We called the vet. Within two hours, we had her on a drip iv to give her energy, and doses of pain killers and vitamins. We harnessed her with a 'spoon' that holds the vagina in to make it more comfortable [the vet said the prolapse would go away after lambing, and hers was not severe]. They suspected 'ketosis' which happens in late stages of pregnancy, often with ewes carrying multiple lambs, and it's caused by lack of adequate minerals/vitamins/calories in her diet these last months. Then they induced labor. They told me we'd have to assist in the delivery, as she'd be too weak, and gave me all sorts of tips on feeling for the babies, and knowing what to do depending on how the babies were arranged in the womb. They also taught me how to tube a lamb, so the new born could get immediate sustenance since Coral might not have milk in her condition, and she would not be able to stand. We were to wait for the water to break in the next 24+ hours, and assist. And in the meantime we were injecting her with multiple shots and oral meds to try to keep her alive. By early evening, she was much stronger, and we checked her at midnight. I even slept in the stall with her for 3 hours Friday night in case her water broke. Martyn came out and found me on the stall floor, and said we were both sleeping, with Coral resting her head on my chest, so he left me there undisturbed. She was calm, and not in as much stress as earlier. By morning, she was alert, and drinking water, and much better, although still off feed, and still unable to get up. But we were hopeful.

The vet called Saturday and verified it was ketosis. So we also added 50cc's of a calcium supplement injected 1x a day. By Saturday night, and then Sunday morning, then Sunday afternoon, there was still no birth sac. She was slightly more dilated, but not much. I guess even when induced, this can happen. Finally, after midnight Sunday evening, her water broke.

I was really confidant, and calm. But a multitude of mistakes on my part led to tragedy. When the water breaks, most lambings proceed in 30 minutes to an hour. That has always been the case here too. The vet told me to reach in and feel for the positions of the babies, hoping it would be 2 front feet and a head coming out. If not, reach in, get your bearings in there, stay calm, and rearrange babies for normal birthing position. I found two feet, and a head. So I gave her about 15 minutes to see if she could progress at all. She was pushing, but I reached in again and began pulling, but I somehow lost track of the head. The 2 legs coming out were stuck at the shoulder line. We thought. But I could hardly get my hand back in to readjust, or find a head. I didn't panic, I'm pleased that's one thing I did right. But I got all the parts confused, and began thinking the two legs I had out were hind legs. I had asked the vet assistant what to do if it was hind end first, and she due to Coral's condition, pull it out by the legs. Our goal was always to get the babies out asap, to help Coral. So I kept pulling, and pulling. But the cervix wasn't big enough. And here is another key mistake I made, perhaps the worst mistake. We decided that she needed more time, that the books had all said, 'don't rush it' and that maybe her cervix needed time to dilate more. It was now 1:30 am, one hour after the water broke. Martyn decided to go lie down for 20 minutes, and stayed with Coral. She was clearly trying to push, so in about 10 minutes, I reached in again, determined. I took my time and really felt around the womb. I could feel toes, and a head. But I wrongly assumed the legs I was pulling did not belong to that head. I worked for 20 minutes trying to rearrange parts, and get the lamb's rear end [I thought] out, but it wasn't coming. It was now 2am, and I told Martyn we had to call a vet. I knew it would cost a fortune, but there was no choice. {The previous Thursday's ER visit came to $500].

It took him until 3 am to get to us. It had now been 2.5 hours since she broke water. The vet arrived, and had to work pretty hard to get the first lamb out. He pulled it out, no heartbeat. The next one came out easier, no heartbeat. One more came out, no heartbeat.

Three beautiful spotted little ewe lambs, all very large, which was part of the problem. The vet said, and this will haunt me for years, that if we had pulled them out sooner, they probably would have lived. He said my biggest mistake was thinking the front legs that first emerged were hind legs, when they in fact were front legs. He said it was a difficult position to adjust, and that I needed to get the lambs head in between the front legs. If they truly had been hind legs, they would have come out, but the head was stuck. If I had known, I could have had all three out in 30 minutes, most likely. We also had never been told "No matter what, they need to be out in 2 hours maximum from water breaking". All the books say, 'Give them up to 2 hours, and if "no progress' is being made, call a vet. I felt we were making progress, but it was not enough progress. I feel there was some communication glitch there to with me and the vet on Thursday, as they told me to give her up to an hour [assuming the positions of baby was normal when I first reached in] to try to push them out on her own. I only waited 15 minutes. But I still blew it.

Perhaps what's even harder to take, there is still a chance Coral won't make it. If she has a tear of any kind in her uterus [since two of us were prodding and poking], there won't be a recovery from that. She will simply never get up, and it will eventually kill her. He said if she is not up and walking in about 5 days, that will be a sign. We are to expect her to be downed though for the next 3-5 days while she regains her energy, now that she doesn't have lambs using her energy reserves.

To complicate things, Rosie also has ketosis, and most likely has triplets. She had triplets last year too. We treated her with the same meds as Coral, and she has recovered some, but the vet said I will need to assist her in delivery. And I'm terrified. But I'll do it, and I can only hope I will do better. She is due any day.

I thought I was on top of my feeding regime, and it's worked for 4 seasons. The mistake I made there, and I know I'm not the first, is that Coral was obviously carrying an extra large load, and I should have increased her feed regiment that I start 4 weeks before lambing. I should have given more than the usual ration.

I can not tell you how surreal it was to see those three lambs lined up on the bloody hay beside me. My only consolation is they died together, in the womb. I hold myself completely. It was 6 am and the sun was just rising. Pino stood up on the hill, watching Martyn as he buried the three lambs in the lower lavender field.

Reciprocate

We are all caregivers in our own ways, but many take on much more than others, and maggie davis[maggie does not capitilze her name, just an fyi] is one. She is a writer in Maine and has written a wonderful book,"Caring in Remembered Ways" and I encourage anyone who is acting as a caregiver to read it. I found the book very helpful while my father was in hospice - I couldn't be with him, but somehow reading the many stories in this book helped me. This is the kind of book that will resonate with mothers, daughters, sons, fathers, seniors, grandchildren, teachers, nurses, or hospice workers - in other words, everyone. I do not use any of my blogs as vehicles for standard advertising, but I do like to pass on gems like this book. And the price is right.

Recently, I had this lovely note from maggie: :
"i've been wanting to tell you what a huge effect i know you are having on the world. these influences cannot be measured. i can barely explain how i feel when i'm at your site. not only is it beautiful and welcoming. when i'm there i've feel i've come home--home with a capital H, the kind of place most people long for.
let me search for words: a true fairyland, and within reach--a noble place--sanctuary--Light--color--real--haven--colors of life. i have been shown again and again that anything we do with love and mindfulness wings it effects throughout the planet and into the galaxies. it's only logical. if only "big footprints" were important than a hero one day would be "nothing" the next were s/he in an accident and confined to bed, unable to "perform." if only "big footprints" were important, a child alone and abused, bereft of kindness, but mustering heart to pat his dog, lovingly and mindfully, would be nothing. this can't be! from our first to last breath we are a gift; we are potential for good, however we choose to manifest that power and the good we are has effect we will never know completely."

Hospice tails

My friend, Emma, is a hospice worker, and continues to be a real support in my Donkey Dreams endeavors, emailed me with a heartbreaking, but sweet, story.

She was providing hospice care for a man who had an older dog. The dog had taken to crawling under the bed, and howling or letting out sad moans. The family memebers were too the point they wanted to remove the dog, but Emma fortunatly recognized this sensitive creature was simply vocalizing his human's pain, or sadness, or fear, or love.

The sister of the dying man brought a shirt to the old dog, so he had the scent and comfort of his human. About a week later, the old dog died, his head laying on the man's shirt.

WHo was comforting whom here? The dying dog, perhaps calling out to his friend, "I'm leaving, I'm sorry I must go and leave you dying"...or perhaps, "Hold me, I can't get up on the bed, I know you there, I smell you"...

There are so many senior dogs and animals that end up abandonned after the owner dies. Family members can't take them on, or won't, or try too...it is one of my biggest fears, my animals after I'm gone. But until then, we must hope people will continue to be like the Emma's of the world, and that hospice workers can work with animal rescue people too in some way in these situations....

Emma is the person who is really helping me and motivating me to do the 2009 Hospice Thank You Day at Apifera where donkeys will mingle and love all the wonderful caregivers who provide hospice for the dying....

And the barnyard mourns

Post Note: Thank you to everyone who wrote such nice comments and emails. It is appreciated and comforting.

As the morning sun came into our bedroom, I opened my eyes and my first thought was, "I know he's dead". I took my time getting to the barn for morning chores, as if procrastinating would change the inevitable.

Arriving at the barn, I heard the usual animal sounds - sheep bleating, a whinny, a little goat knicker, cats of many tones. But there was no sound of a sick rooster. I looked in Ward's stall, hoping, maybe...but he wasn't at the food dish like normal, and I could barely see a feather sticking up out of his bed box. Ward's body was slumped down in his little hay bed, already stiff, his beak slightly open, his neck curled like a swan. But his feathers still so light and breezy, so beautiful even after death.

The night before I had gone to put everyone in for the night. Ward had been under the weather again, limping a lot, his wattle always drooping. But he was eating and drinking. But the night before, he was making gurgling sounds. There was liquid in his lungs. He couldn't make any normal clucking sounds, and when I opened his mouth further, you could hear the fluid. His neck feathers were wet too. When I put him in his Ward Room for the night, he went into the corner, and faced his head down. I knew that was a sure sign he was in distress. I made a fresh, fluffy bed of hay for him in his bed box, and held him for awhile. I hated to leave him alone in his room, and thought about bringing him in the studio in a crate for the night, but the new sounds and lights would have just been more stressful.

So he died alone in the night. I plucked his finest tail feathers, and showed his body to his barnyard compadré Frankie, and then buried him in the front garden next to Mr. Pumpkin Head. He was always an outcast from the flock, and it didn't seem right to bury him in the hen yard. His headstone reads, "Ward 10/19/08. Rooster, friend, gentleman."

Damn, I really liked having him around. He was a fine fellow to have known, and I will miss him.