Animal Profiles
A Mother's Loving Protection, A Father's Dedication: A Family Like Any Other
Published May 28, 2009 @ 06:39PM PT
From the Telegraph comes the most heartwarming, beautiful story of the day. And it's a tear-jerker. "Bird brain" is an insult I despise because it implies that birds themselves are unintelligent, unthinking beings when they certainly are not. And this remarkable story tells us that we shouldn't underestimate the size of their hearts either.
Petey and the Rake: The Curiosity of Playful Pigs
Published May 06, 2009 @ 06:44AM PT
Those of you who've been lucky enough to catch Deb Durant's previous guest posts on this blog (or who are familiar with her blog, Invisible Voices) know that her stories about the animals at Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary and her gorgeous accompanying photos are a treat. The following post and photos are no exception. Make sure to click through for the whole story and all the photos. -S. Ernst
Petey came to the sanctuary over a year ago, rescued with his brother, Otis. In this picture of them running through the snow last year, they are expressing such obvious joy that even people who don't know pigs at all can't help but to remark on it. Maybe because they were little piglets in that picture, and piglets are remarkably similar to dogs, which most of us are familiar with.
Their current happiness makes a sharp contrast from the situation they were rescued from. They were victims of extreme neglect, extreme enough to be prosecutable under various laws. If you are familiar with the status of farm animals' meager protection under the law, you will recognize just how extreme the neglect would have to be for the law to come into play. These are animals whose brutal deaths are protected by the law, after all. Their lives have far less protection. In this particular neglect case, when the county stepped in, a momma pig and her eight piglets were living on a trash heap. They were rescued, and two of the babies came to Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary.
Petey and Otis are about half grown now. As with adult dogs, adult pigs retain their curiosity about life, though without that exuberance and excessive energy that we associate with the babies. Sometimes that means it is expressed more subtly.
Sometimes it is even more blatant.
Jeremy and Lenny: Rescued from Death at a Small Local Dairy
Published March 03, 2009 @ 06:13AM PT
Jeremy and Lenny came to the sanctuary when they were just a few days old, rescued from a goat dairy. At the small local dairy, they were considered garbage. That's true of babies at all dairies. It is the way of business.
A woman visiting the dairy, a believer in buying local and from small operations, witnessed the treatment of the babies born in front of her eyes and was horrified. The baby goats had value to her - not as an investment, not as commodities, not as food, but because they were alive, and she believed they should be allowed to live free of harm, free to be themselves. Simply because they were alive, because they were individuals, because they wanted to live, as we all do. This realization opened her eyes in an instant.
-Continue reading after the jump-
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:
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.
She Wanted to Live, and She Did
Published January 04, 2009 @ 01:57PM PT
They all want to. But only the tiniest percentage of them get to. Heidi is one of the lucky few. She refused to go quietly or easily, and her determination paid off. She knew which humans and which truck she could trust. The trucks meant to take her to horrific slaughter had to leave without her, but when it came time to board the truck that would take her to safety, Heidi knew--she put up no fight; she knew she was going home.
The lengths to which Heidi went to save her own life are quite astonishing, and hers is not the only such story. Stories such as Heidi's provide proof, once again, that the animals humans kill and eat by the billions aren't machines on auto-pilot. They think. They feel. They remember. They infer. They contemplate. They problem-solve. Read Heidi's story, written by Deb of Invisible Voices, and you'll agree: "Heidi: The cow who saved herself"
Photo by Deb Durant
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
