Death Happens

[Sniff]

Whenever things have started to feel physically or emotionally difficult over the last four and half months, I've reminded myself that this is what I've signed up for and I need to either accept it or accept that I'm not up to the task. (The task being my imagined future as an artisanal farmstead cheesemaker.) And if I'm not up to that task, then what in the French fuck am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? But that's for another conversation. I imagine this is how it will be if/when I have kids and they slowly suck away my life force, as I've been given to understand kids do, whether from the sheer exhaustion of being a parent or the eventuality of them getting old enough to act like assholes to me. It's tough, it's not for sissies, and anyone who enters into it thinking otherwise is a fucking fool.

I knew that eventually I'd have to confront some sad truths on the farm. All you vegetarians out there who, like, avoid eating cheese with rennet in it and only use humane lipstick and whatever should know that ALL DAIRY RESULTS IN ANIMAL DEATH. Even if you are not actually eating a dead animal, dead animals are an irrefutable unavoidable byproduct of farming, regardless of scale. Laini loves her animals and treats them very very well, but she also runs a business. These animals are employees, not pets. This is what I have told myself whenever the dreaded specter of kidding seasons is brought up, and when Laini hinted that a couple of the girls in the herd who hadn't been successfully bred this past fall would be heading off to that inevitable summer camp in the sky.


I am trying very hard to steel myself against these realities, but the truth is that no matter how well you try to prepare for the hardships of life, you can't escape feeling the Heavy Feels.

I came into the barn for chores today and immediately noticed that there were fewer goats in the pen. Ramone and Scout and Amy and Natalie had been sold. I didn't get to say goodbye. So much for my Fan-Fic, in which I'd crafted perfect characters for Roman-nosed Amy, who was definitely a Jewish American Princess sorority girl pre-nose job who was going to go away on spring break and come back having had surgery on a "deviated septum," and Natalie, who was on a track scholarship but got kicked off the team for getting wasted at a frat party and spent her free time drinking Starbucks Frappucinos and generally affecting the persona of Britney Spears circa 2005. 

Laini came barrelling into the barn and started shuffling girls around into different pens like a very methodical tornado. Everyone got switched around, the yearlings who have never been put into stanchions to feed all of a sudden got hooked into feeding stands and everyone including me was bewildered and grumpy about it. I noticed that Rigby and Elizabeth were alone in a pen. "They're going to the solar farm tomorrow," Laini said in a resigned voice. "Sausage." I think my face started to crumple a little because she then added, "YOU don't have to take 'em. I'm taking 'em." Errrrrrr.

I have had the good fortune to not have had to euthanize any pets in recent years, but that is sort of how this feels, except that the decision to cull them is not mine and also they are not sick or suffering so it's doubly hard to stomach. I respect Laini and am confident that she made her decision for her own reasons, having had decades of experience in these matters. And I know that it's not easy for her either.

I had an inkling that Elizabeth might be getting the literal ax back during breeding season, and ever since then, I have been taking extra care to give her hugs and cuddles when feeding her. I know that ultimately it isn't going to matter, and in doing this I probably only succeeded in making myself more attached to her. But part of me feels marginally comforted knowing that I did all I could to make this animal feel loved and cared for. One of my absolute favorite things about my work is the time I get to spend with the goats, and I view the extra minute or two of each shift I spend rubbing their heads and letting them try to French me as something like a benefit, since I don't get a 401K or insurance or a fucking discounted membership to Crunch or whatever bullshit. They all have distinct personalities, and when you spend 5 days a week feeding and looking after these creatures, and are predisposed to having outsized affection for all animals, especially the quadripeds, it can be hard to anesthetize your big dumb lacrymose FEELINGS for them, no matter what well-reasoned, practical arguments you have with yourself about The Nature of Agriculture. So in between fits of hysterical sobbing, I'm trying to see this as a learning experience, and the first in a potentially long line of sad truths I will confront in farming.

RIP Elizabeth. RIP Rigby. RIP my tender heart.