Animal Emotions
The Breaking of Bonds and the "Sad, Sorrowful Bellowing"
Published April 02, 2009 @ 03:11PM PT
Kelly of easyVegan.info wrote a post titled "A cow is so much like a woman" the other day. She wrote much in relation to Jeff Masson's The Pig Who Sang to the Moon: The Emotional World of Farm Animals (yes, it did occur to me as I wrote that just now that I plugged Jeff Masson's newest book already earlier today--you can go a head and call it Jeff Masson day around here, I suppose), but she also wrote about some personal experiences that struck me. And they are worth sharing.
When we moved to Kansas, we managed to find a house for rent on 80 acres of land; our landlord inherited the place when her father died, rusty farm equipment, horses, cows and all. She lived just down the street, so she and her husband decided to fix the house up, rent it out, and keep the “beef cattle” operation going. When you think of a small, family farm, probably you imagine a farm similar to this place.
The acreage was divided into three large grazing pastures, as well as a smaller “holding pen” which shared a fenceline with our fenced-in backyard. After the calves were birthed, the mothers and their young were separated from the rest of the herd, confined to that smaller pen, supposedly so the males wouldn’t attack the youngsters, I guess. I used to spend hours playing with the dogs in the backyard, watching the mama cows nurse their babies. Many of the cows were accustomed to human interaction, so they’d usually watch me back. (The newborns, of course, were understandably skittish.) Some of the older cows took an interest in the dogs, and would come over and sniff at them as they ran (or, in Ralphie’s case, dug) along the fenceline. To say that they enjoyed playing together wouldn’t be a product of my silly, sentimental wimmin’s imagination.
Other times, when cows were sold (whether to other farmers or slaughter operations, I know not - I was afraid to ask), the unlucky “merchandise” was placed in the pen a day or two beforehand. Many times, the calves were the ones slated to be sold off; it wasn’t uncommon to see a dozen youngish calves sequestered in the pen together, all of them wailing for their mothers. Meanwhile, a dozen females might be gathered along the perimeter of the nearest pasture, bellowing right back at their babies, trying in vain to lure them back into their protective custody. This would go on for hours on end, with few breaks - even during the night. The scene dragged on - slowly, sadly - until the calves were ferried away; usually, you could still hear a few plaintive bellows days or weeks later.
And I was only an observer of the abuse, not a victim. I can only begin to imagine the depths of the grief suffered by the mothers and babies alike. It’s heart-wrenching. To this day, I can still recall - quite vividly, mind you - the sad, sorrowful bellowing.
We live in Missouri, now, and a cattle farmer rents the pasture on one side of our house. I don’t have the pleasure of watching the mothers with their children anymore; this herd is more wary of humans, and rightfully so. But I can tell when he’s separated the mothers from their children - during these days and weeks, the long, low, mournful, melancholy bellows echo up the valley and through the treeline.
If I weren’t already a vegan, these cries of despair surely would persuade me.
I ask that vegetarian readers please remember that this terrible breaking of bonds between mother and child on farms raising cattle for their flesh takes place in the dairy industry as well; indeed, the dairy industry is built on this breaking of bonds, over and over throughout the cow's life: you have to rip the calf away from his or her mother (and most often send that calf to almost immediate slaughter) if you want the mother's milk for yourself. What you've just read is just a much milder version of what cows exploited for dairy and calves killed for veal suffer. And whether we're inflicting this heartbreak and sorrow on animals for their flesh or for their milk, it's all just so wrong.
Photo courtesy of Kelly
The Love of a Rat
Published January 24, 2009 @ 04:24PM PT
Rats don't get a fair shake. When people hear that you actually care about a rat or a mouse--for instance, that you don't want to kill one who isn't a pet but who has shown up uninvited in your home--they look at you like you're crazy and scrunch up their face in disgust. And why is that exactly? What makes rats and mice, particularly rats, so different from other animals? So loathsome? So scary? We see and hear all sorts of negative things about them from childhood on (e.g., portrayals of rats in cartoons or movies as creepy and devious and "rat" name-calling directed at fellow humans we find despicable) and fail to ever, or often, question our preconceived notions about them. I've seen and heard even vegetarians respond to a mention of rats with automatic disgust. We don't often stop to consider that just like other animals--just like the dogs and cats whom many of us take in and just like the cows, pigs, chickens, fish, and other animals whom many of us refuse to eat--rats think, experience emotions, and suffer.
Some of you may recall that in an early December roundup ("Animals in the Blogs: 'Expendable' Animals, Global Warming, and More"), I linked to a truly wonderful post from Reformed Fast Food Mascot titled "Final Two Hours of a Life." It was difficult to read. And it made me cry. But I strongly recommend that those of you who missed that post the first time go read it now.
Then come back and watch the below video. This won't make you cry; you will smile and maybe even laugh. Rats feel, and they express affection and joy and playfulness, and not just with fellow rats. Don't believe me? Just watch. Interspecies relationships among nonhuman animals aren't as uncommon as many people think, but this one is quite adorable and may lead you to see rats a little differently. Maybe "just a rat" isn't a good enough response to the question of why we kill these animals when they show up where we don't want them or why we experiment on them in such terrible ways.
Rat Loves Cat
Heidi and Emily: Lessons in Courage, Compassion, and More--From Cows
Published January 22, 2009 @ 02:38PM PT
Photos in this post by Deb Durant of Invisible Voices
Do you remember when I directed you to the story of Heidi at Invisible Voices a couple weeks ago? The story of a cow who went to astonishing, clearly thoughtful lengths to save her own life? Deb, the blogger and sanctuary volunteer who wrote the first part of Heidi's story, has now published the second part too.
The second part of Heidi's story isn't just Heidi's--it's also the story of Emily, a blind (pastured, mind you--not from a factory farm) calf who, when her life was in immediate danger, and she and her mother were desperately calling out for one another, was intentionally left for dead by the farmer responsible for her. Luckily, a worker at the farm was not so hardened, and he saved Emily and delivered her to Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary. But a nearly fearless blind calf is often a lost calf when she is on 400 acres that include wooded areas, which makes for some dangerous circumstances for her. Enter Heidi, who has appointed herself Emily's guardian. Go read their story:
Mother and Son: The Way It Should Be But Hardly Ever Is
Published January 21, 2009 @ 01:05PM PT
I wanted to embed a video for you here, but technical difficulties prevented it, so I'm going to supply you with links instead. Follow this link to have the video open in Windows Media Player on a large screen, or follow this link to see the smaller video embedded in the related news article. (Really, watch the video. The rest of this post will make more sense, and there are adorable sights that I just can't describe.)
Now for the less adorable part. If Hillside Animal Sanctuary hadn't rescued Clover, a dairy cow, one of two things would have happened, as noted by the sanctuary worker in the video:
1. Because there was too much pus in her milk (and yes, a fair amount of pus is legally allowed and is present in all the cow's milk consumed by humans), and no farmer businessman is going to keep around an animal a machine from whom which he can't profit, she would have been killed, and the calf she was carrying would have died along with her. (I don't know enough about this particular story to know with certainty whether Clover then would have been turned into hamburger, which does come mostly from "spent" dairy cows.)
2. Or she would have given birth before being killed, and her sweet calf would have been taken away almost immediately to be turned into veal.
Luckily, neither of these things happened in this case. But as we watch the news story on Clover and her unexpected (unexpected by the sanctuary, that is) calf, we have to take note of that playful, sweet-faced calf. He very easily could have been yet another victim of the dairy/veal industry. Clover and her son Bramble will live out natural lives now, together, but most are not so lucky.
-----
(Thanks to Alison of the heart2heart list for providing the alert to this story.)
They Connect. They Love. And They Mourn.
Published January 08, 2009 @ 02:41PM PT
It has been argued in the comments to various posts that animals do not feel--that they do not bond with one another, that they do not love, and that they do not mourn when one of their companions or family members dies or is killed. These arguments have been without basis. The argument to the contrary is not.
I personally disagree with some of the choices one prominent animal sanctuary has made in recent years, but even while making decisions I consider counterproductive, this sanctuary hasn't stopped doing good things too or stopped taking loving care of the animals it has rescued, and today, they tell a story that needs to be shared. I will let you read most of the story for yourself, including the amazing story of how Cinci the cow came to be at the sanctuary in the first place, but I will include here the part I think it is most important for people who make the just-mentioned arguments to read:
The adoration and devotion the herd felt for Cinci in return was never more apparent than when she, after six years of living among dear friends at the sanctuary, suddenly lost use of her back legs and became immobile. As we anxiously awaited results of veterinary diagnostics, Cinci’s friends, Maxine and Robin, stayed by her side — and remained there constantly through that first difficult night. The next morning, we received the tragic news that Cinci had spinal cancer, a terminal illness that often progresses quickly in cattle and only becomes apparent when the size of the tumor increases and causes sudden pressure on the animal’s spine. With heavy hearts, we also learned that this cancer could not be kept at bay.
When it came time to say goodbye to Cinci, the herd gathered close around her. One of the eldest steers, Kevin, stepped forward to lick her face, while Iris, an older female, licked her back, soothing and keeping her calm up until she took her final breath. After our beautiful girl passed, every member of the herd approached to say goodbye, each one sharing with Cinci one last moment of affection. Though heartbreaking, the herd’s mourning ritual was also beautiful and comforting, as there was no doubt that Cinci not only lived, but also died knowing that she was cherished by all.
Don't tell me they don't love. Don't tell me they don't mourn.
Read the rest of Cinci's story and see her memorial slideshow here.
Beginning Again--Because Lives Like Celeste's Depend on It
Published January 02, 2009 @ 06:11AM PT
Today I am reposting a lovely essay that Joanna Lucas of Peaceful Prairie Sanctuary originally posted on New Year's Day in 2007 on the PPS blog. I am doing so with much gratitude extended to Joanna, for the work she does, for the words she writes, and for the permission she has given me to share her writings here. There are important questions to consider at the end, after you've finished reading Celeste's story--the story of a pig rescued from one of those "humane" family farms, not a factory farm, it should be noted--so be sure to read all the way through.
---
Two years ago today, Celeste sang for the first time. It was New Year's Day 2005. We had brought her gifts of grapes, which she had received and consumed enthusiastically, practically drinking the grapes off the stems like wine, eyes closed, head thrown back, mouth open to receive the nectar (and to demand more). She loved treats, she loved company, she loved stimulation, she loved novelty and, as we learned that day, she loved music.
Celeste spent her short life a cripple. Hunched over, unable to use her hind legs, she sat up, on her good days, like a dog with a hump on her back. On her bad days, she just lay on one side and didn't get up at all. Rescued from a family hog farm the day before she was scheduled for slaughter, she arrived at the sanctuary with a broken back, and she never walked more than a few steps at a time, although she did move around her safe world, her barn, by dragging her crippled hind legs from place to place, and busied herself with rearranging the straw bales, the blankets, the feed bags and, occasionally, her barn mate, Ponza. 
Once in a while, she got up and walked around proper, on all fours but, as her condition worsened, she limited her activity to sitting up to greet visitors. And then, towards the end, she spent most of her time lying on her side. There were many days when the only question was: "is it time?" Every time, the answer was: "No". Not our answer. Hers. She didn't want to be "put out out of her misery" - it wasn't misery to her, it was her life. And it was fierce with meaning to her.
We kept trying to measure her life in degrees of comfort. And those are important measures. But she measured its worth in degrees of meaning (that absolute certainty, down to the marrow, that something is important), and degrees of joy (not happiness, not pleasure, but the fierce joy of drinking dawn like spring water, and eating dusk like supper), and degrees of love (not love that scintillates, but love that pulls you like a river, that draws you, body and soul, into the mystery of another day despite the pain, despite the darkness). Her eyes were always filled with light, her mind was always awake, aware, alert, open to receive the world, her spirit, strong to her last breath, her will to live, learn, and grow, absolutely unbreakable. 
The moments of triumph we recorded and celebrated in Celeste's life were the big, dramatic, visible ones, those moments that demonstrated OUR view of a full life, not hers, what WE thought a full life should be.
Celeste stands up!
Celeste walks a few steps!
Celeste goes into the next barn with no help!
Celeste visits with the potbellied pigs (and scares the beejeebers out of them)!
Celeste takes a mud bath in front of her barn!
Celeste leaves her barn and suns herself on the front porch!
Celeste sings!
Those are very important standards - health, comfort, happiness - but, as Celeste felt beyond doubt, all the way down to her broken bones, they are not the reasons why life is precious. 
On that New Years Day in her barn, 730 days ago, the CD player played old French songs and I sang along as I stroked Celeste's belly. Glacial dusk sky, dead of winter. It was an old French love ballad whose rich words are meaningless to all who don't speak French, just as Celeste's rich language is meaningless to all who don't speak pig. But the music captured and expressed what we all feel beyond language. Celeste propped herself up, sat up, her face a few inches from mine, cocked her head, looked me straight in the eyes. I sang directly to her: "Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai." She uttered a sound I had never heard her, or any other pig, make. A series of open mouthed, melodic, rhythmic, throaty purrs. A musical response. I repeated the refrain: "Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai." She listened, wide mouthed, as though waiting for her turn. I paused. She repeated her musical reply. We did this till the song ended, each of us responding to music with music, to deep, universal feeling with like feeling. "Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai." "I’ve been loving you for so long, I will never forget you".
She sang in pig, I sang in human. We understood each other. Not because we were especially gifted at inter-species communication, not because we knew each other all that well, but because we both knew the love, the grief, and the hope of being alive in a soul burdened body. 
That day with Celeste, that New Year's Day, was a true-blue new beginning. It revealed then, and it continues to reveal now, the only reason why beginning again - a new day, a new week, a new year - is worth doing at all.
When the darkness of the world seems overwhelming, unstoppable, crushing, when beings like Celeste, who love life and sing about love are being turned into meat and handbags by the millions every day, when the pain of loving them seems unbearable, the answer is NOT to stop loving, NOT to stop caring, NOT to add to the darkness. The answer is to love more, deeper, wider. To love despite the darkness and the pain. Indeed, to love because of it. To love those who need it most desperately, not only those we happen to like, to love because your love is profoundly, vitally needed, not because it is self-gratifying. To love as though life depended on it. It does.
This is what being vegan means. Securing, one vegan meal at a time, a space in the world where innocents like Celeste can simply keep what is rightfully theirs - their life, their freedom, their meager, pathetic, or truly magnificent shot at happiness, refusing to take their lives simply because we have the power. It is the only thing worth starting a new year, a new day, for. How many hapless individuals like Celeste would be killed for my taste buds this New Year, if I weren't vegan? 50, 100, more? How desperately would each and every one of them cling to life, fighting to their last breath, against all hope? What would their last sounds on earth be? What IS the sound of complete despair? How many times would it be voiced this year, just for my culinary pleasure? Do I really want to start a New Year like this, let alone live through each and every one of its 365 blood-soaked days?
Celeste left this world entirely on her own. She had been forced into existence by human greed, she had been a prisoner of a crippled body all of her short life, but she exited entirely on her own terms, just before noon, one summer day.
Celeste, wherever you are, "Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai." "I’ve been loving you for so long, I will never forget you". This will be a life-filled year. Maybe not happy, maybe not comfortable, but beautiful, and true - like your life. Worth living. Worth beginning again.
-----
Originally posted at the PPS blog
Turkeys at Poplar Spring: The Luckier Ones
Published November 19, 2008 @ 07:19AM PT
In the following post, shutterbug Deb Durant introduces us to the turkeys who reside at Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary, where she volunteers; included are lovely photos she has taken of the birds. Deb is the author of the blog Invisible Voices. I refer to these turkeys as the luckier ones rather than just lucky because they all still suffered before finding sanctuary at Poplar Spring. But they are certainly, absolutely luckier than most other turkeys, including the ones I told you about late yesterday; once you are finished reading Deb's beautiful guest post, please see the previous post about what happens to many other turkeys, if you haven't already, and watch the video there. -SE
----
As Thanksgiving approaches, turkeys are being killed by the millions. I could discuss those numbers, and what those numbers mean, but instead I am going to tell you the stories of a few individuals. These are turkeys who slipped through the hands of the people intent on killing them and landed in a safe zone at Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary, in Poolesville, MD, run by Terry Cummings and Dave Hoerauf.
If you came with me to the sanctuary, walked down the hill from the Civil War–era farmhouse to the weathered old chicken barn, and stepped inside, you'd be greeted by Victor. He would be displaying, proud bird that he is, and he would follow you with his distinctive turkey strut — step, step, pause, *poof* of air, step step, pause, *poof* of air. You'd likely be charmed and perhaps a little intimidated at first.
Turkeys are big birds, and the domesticated turkeys are abnormally large, genetically manipulated to become that abnormally large size. It is usually their primary health concern as they age.
