And then there were seven.

It always feels strange when I have to shoot an animal on the farm. It’s blessedly rare but always an important, thought-provoking, and significant moment.  I always learn something new and feel something profound.

When Maria went out to feed the animals early this morning, it was 12 degrees on the thermometer. She called me right away to say that Socks, our second oldest sheep, was lying back in the back pasture and had lost the use of her legs.

Maria half-dragged and half-carried socks up to the central pasture behind the Pole Barn. If she was suffering, we had to put her down. I wonder how she managed that; Socks was a big sheep. She stood by her until I returned, and it was clear she was.

I came out to look and went back for my rifle. We have people we can call for this, but I wanted to do it myself this time. It’s my responsibility whenever possible.

Socks was near death and couldn’t stand up.

It was a bitter cold, and she was suffering. I was supposed to go to Saratoga for a doctor’s check-up this morning, but I wasn’t about to leave with her twitching on the ground.  Once I looked at her, there was no question about it.

I shot her and went to see my doctor. I had the appointment wrong; it’s in April. It was that kind of morning.

Maria agreed. I shot her three times in the heart, and she died almost immediately. This is not easy for either of us. But we process it and go back to work.

People ask me how I feel when one of our animals dies. I don’t like shooting a ewe, but I always ask three questions: Did they have a good life? Did we do everything possible to care for her and end her suffering now?

Am I grateful to know her and live with her on the farm?

Are Maria and I in total agreement about her death? If the answer to all three questions is yes, I pray for gratitude, not regret,  and take out my rifle. I usually shoot them rapid-fire three times in the heart and once or twice in the back of the head. The sheep will twitch for a minute or so.

I’ve done this many times. For much of my life, I never imagined I would be able to shoot one of my animals to death and be reasonable about it.

We couldn’t drive away leaving Socks like this. We needed to know she was gone and beyond pain and discomfort.

It happens a lot; I’m used to it. Maria is much closer to the sheep than I am; to her, each loss is like the loss of a friend or family member. She is also tough as nails and understands what needs to happen. Our main goal is to avoid suffering.

Then Maria cried a good cry, and I moved on. I don’t dwell on it; it’s not a crisis or a tragedy; it’s just life.

Sock was a good girl; she never gave us a second’s trouble and much beautiful yarn.  I’m interested in life, not mourning death. We have seven sheep left, and they are all young.

We went out for breakfast, and Maria kept asking herself if she had done everything possible to care for Socks. I said yes, she does that daily with all our animals. Learning about death is one of the precious lessons about living on a farm.

Most animals will twitch for a few seconds, then close their eyes and stop breathing. It’s the most painful possible death for an animal like a sheep. I’m no John Wayne, but I always appreciate death on the farm. It teaches me about life, of which death is an equal part.

As I’ve often written, I’d prefer to love an animal rather than mourn one. Everyone has to do it in their way.

It’s been quite a week. It was a good and meaningful one.

 

I got off three shots, and then the rifle jammed. I got the bullet out and fired two more. Socks had long stopped moving.

Constance was close to Socks; Maria stopped to console her. She was visibly upset.

After I shot Socks, Maria, and Zip went to the bottom of the pasture. She trimmed some wool, which made her feel better about losing her. She’ll do something useful with it. Zip walked her up and down the pasture and sat by while she trimmed. He’s a partner on the farm; he sticks his nose into everything.

The animals are startled by gunfire and go off together to hide. Ten minutes later, they accept life and move on, looking for food. It’s the law of life and death with animals – acceptance and more acceptance. I don’t believe a single one will miss Socks. They are the embodiment of mindfulness; they live in the now.