Death is such a big part of the "life" of this farm, any farm. It goes hand in hand with so many critters, so many variables, and so many possibilities. There are the deaths we plan on - the ones we do with our own hands each year, as we harvest the meat we eat with love, respect, and so much care. There are the deaths by mercy we sometimes choose to do - as we otherwise watch an animal slowly and painfully dying a death from illness or predator. There are of course the deaths by natural causes, old age, and those are sad as we've known the critter for so long by then, usually. I've come to know the look on Steve's face when he comes in from chores, and I'm guessing he knows my pained look too. Each death can be hard to take, but the ones that hurt the most, the ones that linger in my mind and heart for a long while, are the preventable ones. I would like to think - and I bet every homesteader would - that we run a tight ship, that things are safe, and that precautions are in place. But I, like ever other farmer I know, would be wrong to assume that mistakes and oversights - with terrible consequences - aren't possible and sometime inevitable on whatever farm we keep.
All that to say, we lost a sheep this weekend - sweet Nutmeg, daughter of Cinnamon. We didn't find her until it was too late. She had escaped her pasture, somehow broke into the chicken coop, filled up on grain to the point of bloat/choking - and all in the time between morning and evening chores, she passed away. Sweet Nutmeg, with her beautiful moorit coloring and sweet soul, died while I was just a few hundred yards away in the garden all day, never knowing. The kids playing games nearby all day. Steve working in the adjacent pasture. There is so much we could have done had we seen/known/heard. So many should have, could have, would haves.
My heart is heavy from the terrible nature of this death on my watch. Something I could have prevented. I'm only slightly comforted as I talked this weekend with several of my shepherdess friends, all amazing women who love their flock and take such good care, and each has experience nearly the exact same scenario. (Tammy wrote so beautifully about this very thing happening at her farm last year, that I read this post three times this weekend, each time aiding in a good cry!)
I don't have a tidy, rosy way to wrap up this story. No neat bow to tie, or happy knitting project to make it all pretty. The kids are all fine - sad, but well-adjusted in the way that farm kids are to these kinds of things. Of course I'll take extra precautions moving forward and I'm fairly sure this particular accident might not happen again. But there are always other things. And while you know I love to keep things positive and cheerful around here, I think it's important to also share the flip side of that once in a while. For the reality is that these heartbreaking and sad moments on the farm are a big part of what make the joyful and beautiful ones all that they are. And that they truly are.
