The More Given, the More Expected

Well, I daresay that we are now officially a farm. We have chickens, goats, dogs, a cat, and as of Saturday, a pig! A 20 year-old potbelly pig named Willie. We have taken him in as a favor to Jack's sister, and so far he seems to be doing just fine. She says if he snorts a lot he's happy, and every time I say hi to him he snorts. We're feeling pretty confident that he's not gonna bust out and run for the hills. That always feels nice.

With the addition of another life to care for, I've actually been thinking about death. Potbellies live for about 20 years and Willie is 20. He is the oldest animal on the farm and by far the closest to death. I guess I've never really thought about what one does with a very large dead animal. Set a bonfire? Rent a backhoe? Can you bury a 150 pound animal in your yard? But more importantly I've been contemplating the awesome responsibility it is to care for another life. It doesn't really matter to me whether it's a chicken, person or dog; it's still a life that I have been entrusted with. It's still a life that I must tend and nourish and watch over. Especially if it's an animal (or a baby, I guess). They are completely dependent on us to keep them alive and know what they need when they need it. And since they can't talk, we have to be vigilant in order to understand their needs or pain. But this is not easy. I mean, Willie is 20 freaking years old! I have no idea what he's like when he's uncomfortable, let alone in pain. And this could be a concern very, very soon.  Ah! What if I can't read him? What if he is in pain and I mistake his grunts for grateful applause? Is there a Cesar Milan of pigs? They're smarter than dogs, you know.

(I just have to mention here that as I'm contemplating death and despair, my man is downstairs blasting Gun's & Roses, an album I never even knew he owned.)

It doesn't help my state of mind that my brother and his family just lost almost all of their adolescent chickens to their dog, who oddly enough, is normally almost comatose, and an old student who just lost his dog and best friend of many years. It just makes you think. The more animals you care for, the more death and loss you will experience. And the more you hope that you will be sensitive enough to know what to do and how to help ease their pain (and, let's be honest, your own). I'm guessing that as the years pass and I become more familiar with the deaths of my animals, this won't cause me as much anxiety and anguish, but as of right now, even shit-clots on the tail feathers of my chickens cause me distress. Jack and I had to team up a few weeks ago and cut one off of Big Black Bertha, and now, just this morning, I noticed one piling up on another one of the gals. And of course, the bleeding heart that I am, my first thought is that it must be painful, like when you put your hair in a ponytail and one or two strands of hair are pulled too tightly, except that chickens don't have hands to pull out the rubber band - or in their case, the dried shit ball stuck to their feathers. See? It's things like this that you have to be on top of. Who would ever think that part of being a responsible chicken owner is weekly butt checks for dried shit balls?  But if you don't, who will? Those little ladies lay their hearts out so you can have a hearty breakfast. The least you can do is be on the lookout for unwanted crap clingers.

I guess that's all for now. Here's to another day of health and happiness on the farm and to hoping that we awake to more of the same. And here's to hoping that you awake to the same, too.