The end of one story

You learn a lot of things on a farm. You're so close to so many of the fundamental processes of existence, in the sense you're carefully observing the world around you, and asking yourself questions based on what you see. Why does grass grow? How will the alpacas react to a new food? What purpose do predators serve?

One of the most fundamental processes is more difficult to grapple with, but still omnipresent: the life-death-rebirth cycle. Why do we die? What happens to those who do? Where does new life come from? What is it like to die?

These are not easy questions, in that the basic answers are often unsatisfying. We may take some comfort in knowing that our bodies are of the earth, and our death is simply our return to what we were before birth. We may understand that death is necessary to life. Still, death is uniquely painful to witness.

So it was with Master Po. Without a constant regime of milk, his body was unable to generate enough heat to survive the cold northwest winter, and his rumen (like a cow's stomach) was unable to digest the hay he was filling himself on. Our veterinarian is an hour's drive, and nearing the end of the ride, Master Po died in my arms.

This is not an easy thing to have happen. This is a farm, however: there are no elaborate burial rituals, or services for the departed. In a few days, things are back to normal, maybe with a sense of something being missing, but that too fades. This is farm, which is like saying "that's life," but without the bitterness that phrase is usually said with. "That's life" in that life is what it is, and as a farmer you try and see the sense in things, because you believe in a rational life worth living, and if life entails pain and death and loss, than that too, is life.