We’ve been having llama line dances here for over twenty years. It happens at dusk and it is boundingly beautiful. The llamas and I have hiked the trails, ground driven in harness, and competed at Llama Agility. Then we turned around and the llamas were the favorite “obstacle” when we did horse agility here on the farm. Llamas are guard animals. Naturally, it’s their job to keep stray dogs and UPS guys off the farm. For years, the ducks (and their eggs) nested in their pen, safe from lurking coyotes. If llamas think you are being rude, they are fine with taking a cush (laying down) and refusing to get up, so like me, they teach affirmative training. Finally, you will never meet a more peaceful animal who likes to share breath more than a llama.
The herd has dwindled over the years and this week, we euthanized Holiday. He was a spectacular boy, tall with big bone and heavy fleece. He was majestic and liked the women. Holiday was eighteen, which is old for a llama, even if he is the youngest of my geriatric herd. Things took a turn for Holiday during the bomb-cyclone two winters ago. The llamas huddled together in a shelter, but the wind buried them in a drift. The others had freed their heads but not Holiday. His body felt lifeless, but I chipped the ice from his facial hair and tried to resuscitate him. We got lucky but he came away with a sore back. They all have some arthritis, but he had a small limp. It got a bit worse last spring; he was slower and spent more time lying on the ground. He had good days, but you know at this point that it’s degenerative, right? Still, he was already on borrowed time and it isn’t a tragic condition to live a long life, says this woman not much younger than him in human years.
I’m no stranger to euthanasia. One of my first jobs after leaving home was at a dog shelter where euthanizing was one of my tasks. Strangely, it helps if you really love dogs. Between being a horse trainer working with rescues and having a farm, death is a common part of my life. I try to make friends with it. Euthanasia never gets easier, but you can do better for animals if you can remember that it’s not about you. I try to breathe along with the scary part. Something as ordinary as death shouldn’t be able to steal all the color from life.
Warning: Dark humor ahead.
All great vet dramas begin on the weekend. Saturday afternoon, Holiday was struggling to walk. It took a day to find my camelid vet had moved and most of Monday, no one would come. Getting a llama in a trailer is as hard as letting a dog out a door, but Holiday was tilting his head around and pinning his ears at his own hind. No translation needed. I couldn’t move him.
Dear reader, take a breath. This is the worst part. Another vet didn’t call back, the frantic search continued. I finally got a new name after 5 pm. She texted back that she’d finished with surgery at 9 pm, and offered to come in the morning. I was elated.
Holiday had a good night, nibbled hay and cooled off by the time the vet arrived, but nothing is sacred; the comedy of errors that is daily life on my farm began to unfold. The new vet was good-humored as Holiday spit continuously as she did her exam. Llamas only spit when attacked, it was fair. I apologized and got a leg between them to catch the most of it. Her diagnosis confirmed what I knew. We had the talk and she asked if there is something he liked to eat. We doubted he would eat but it meant she wanted to continue at liberty, so I skipped off to get alfalfa pellets. Holiday dug right in, as bright as he could be. The vet asked if I was good to start and I smiled, “Yes, please.” He wasn’t eating because he could recover, he was eating because I succeeded in my 18-hour fight to find help. I remind you, this is not sad. It’s a gift and if I can make it easier for the vet, then better for Holiday, too.
That was the moment Arthur crawled through the fence panel. Arthur is a Nubian goat, both taller and heavier than my mini horse. He careens over with a self-important bleat to steal Holiday’s last meal, giving me a light head butt to get out of the way. The vet is trying to hide a smile on the corners of her mouth as Arthur shoves his head into Holiday’s bucket and wags his tail. Calmly, I move the bucket away, dumping some on the ground and return to Holiday, with Arthur in hot pursuit. Alfalfa pellets are sacred, you know. In the middle of this ruckus, Holiday gets a few more bites and doesn’t notice his first shot. Arthur gives the vet a shove in case she has an eye on his pellets. The four of us do an odd dance, each with a task and no real control. As the first meds begin, Holiday rests his head on Arthur’s back. It’s a soft landing.
If there can be a favorite part of this sad process, mine is the moment when Holiday becomes pain-free. If you’re steady, you can see his breathing go deep. It’s bittersweet; the plain truth of how much pain he’s have been holding. The vet and I give it time. Some while after that, Arthur finished the pellets. I swear, if Arthur were human, he’d kick back, cross his legs, and eat potato chips in church. Then crumple the bag and toss it in the aisle.
Death is nothing. We must learn that it’s their pain that matters. All the horses, just over the fence, blew great snorts. Herds will always offer calming signals for each other. The llamas were ready for turnout with no big show of mourning. I think we were all relieved. If they knew that I helped release Holiday from life, they were fine with it. Animals don’t share our fears about death.
Last night when I opened the pasture gate, the llamas cantered in past me. As usual, I waited for Holiday to limp in last. I remembered what a large cria he was, how he hummed back and forth with his mum before he was fully born. But there are alfalfa pellets waiting, Arthur is desperately bleating at me to hurry, and all is well.
“Excess of grief for the dead is madness; for it is an injury to the living, and the dead know it not.” – Xenophon
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Anna Blake for Relaxed & Forward
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The phrase ” a good death” truly fits this story! And believe me, there havent been too many in my experience – good ones, that is. The whole experience says so much about you, the vet, Arthur, of course and most of all Holiday. He is & will be missed greatly.
He had a great, long life. Thanks, Maggie.
You are a very wise woman. I am sorry for your loss.
Thanks, Stepanie. More experience than wisdom, but I’m working at it.
just perfect. run free, Holiday. thank you, Anna.
Thanks Sandy. Seeing that great old goat of yours in my mind’s eye.
“If you’re steady, you can see his breathing go deep.” Yes, as a former hospice social worker, this is the sacred moment as you described. I found my own breath change as I read this passage just now, and sat with it. Allowing the sensation of emotion which for me today, is sadness mixed with an awareness of the responsibility we have as we walk along side the animals that enhance our lives. Holding you in my heart – Holiday, as all of your four-leggeds was so well loved.
It is a precious work you did. Thanks, Michelle.
I love this story, Anna. You have such a practical view of life (and death). In my view, that which is much worse than death would be suffering. Leaving the body offers a blessed freedom if the suffering cannot be mitigated. Thank you for sharing your life with us.
I agree. Thanks, Sally
It’s been such fun for us to spend time with your llamas, including Holiday. Thanks for the gift of their lives.
I’m grateful, too. Holiday did love company. Thanks, Chaz
All the yes. The moment the pain recedes is sacred. A regaining of self, of dignity. I try very hard not to grieve until they are gone, to breathe for them, hold the space. Peace is the goal. So many people shrink back from death, but to me, it is a privilege to stand there and acknowledge them. And I’m grateful in the long run, as it has stolen the fear away. None of us know how long we have and having an animal to teach you that only the moment matters is priceless.
Dignity, that is the deal. Great comment, Justinn. Thanks.
I’ll never look at alfalfa pellets the same way. Thank you for all that you share.
Beware of goats! Thanks, Lynn
Sail on, Holiday ! You are so beautiful and regal and mysterious .
Oh, Anna, so sorry you had a hard time getting a vet out for him.. but what a story !! Thank you for sharing with us. I can see it all.
So grateful for the soft landing.
Thanks, Sarah. Goats are an antidote to so many of my flaws.
It’s so good to have a laugh about death these days. Thanks, Anna. Helpful as always.
Exactly what I think. Thanks, Susan.
Thank you. Beautifully written tribute to a life well lived.
Thanks, Carol
Euthanasia is about allowing another loved soul to go free. Thanks for your comments.
Thanks, Nancy
So sorry for your loss…thank you for sharing Holiday’s story…I just can’t get the vision of Arthur eating potato chips in church out of my head..dark humor…grab a smile where you can.
Mary, another time, another vet, we might have fought with Arthur and it would have changed it all. Just say yes. and Thanks.
Once again, thank you for writing this, sharing this. And darn it, you now have made me want to get llamas!!!
They are aliens but friendly. Thanks, Sandra
Nice. Very real & true.
Thanks, Gina.
Death can be a gorgeous sunset of changing colors that melt and blend together to create a lasting memory. If given a choice I’ll take a good death, thanks and in fact, I’ve been been known to cheat nature to insure that happens. When that can’t happen, an honest grasp of reality and a dark sense of humor can often make it tolerable. Dance on, Holiday. I’m sure wherever you are, they’re playing your song.
Thanks, Cheryl
I greedily inhale all your words on euthanasia, hoping to get better at it, but other than getting better at breathing (which I know is a “big deal”), I am failing miserably. Animals have always been my closest companions and it’s just so hard to lose someone you love….
Someone lately said Love is a verb. Boy Howdy. Thanks, Michelle
Death is nothing…amen. Rest in peace beautiful boy.
He looks so much like our dearly departed llama dude, Merlin. Your description of Holiday’s personality sounds just like our boy too! Stately of stature, full of self-imposed dignity, opinionated, ornery, loved the ladies, kind, gentle of spirit and peaceful. He was all of that, and much more. Just like a king of the pasture should be. Thank you Anna, for giving him a peaceful, dignified death.
Lovely Merlin… thanks Lorie.
Funny I should read this today. It is exactly one year since I made the decision to euthanize my beloved Morgan. She was 24 and had laminitis brought on by Cushing, despite a strict diet, exercise and medication. We fought for her for three months, and during that time she was always in pain, and three times in excruciating pain. I made the appointment, and then abscesses blew out of the soles of both feet. For the next five days leading up to her final day, she felt better than she had in 3 months! But better is a relative thing. I could still see the pain in her eyes and the odds were that she was going to go through more bouts of excruciating pain. So on the last day, a beautiful, sunny day, I allowed her to eat grass for the first time that year. (Her laminitis came on in March with the ground snow covered). She was so happy to have her beloved grass, and even tried to canter twice, though she pulled herself up short. Many times I have wondered if there was any way she might have recovered, but given the underlying metabolic condition and her age, the odds were against her. All I knew is that it wasn’t fair for her to suffer more horrible pain. I couldn’t even imagine her having to stomp flies in the heat of the summer with her painful feet. I miss her every day and she has a permanent place in my heart. The last thing I said to her was that I loved her and was so sorry if I was wrong in my decision. Ok, time to mop up the tears now. Thanks for your story.
There is a line from an Edna St. Vincent Millay sonnet… “and no such summer as the one gone before.” Let it be right. Thanks, Cindy.
What a beautiful post.
Thank you, Dawn.
I wish I could have euthanasia with you when my time is here.
I want someone like me, too! Thanks, Claudia
I vividly recall, some 19 years later the last deep full breath my appaloosa mare took. She was 23, had suffered a bout of colic and was suffering, the choice of euthanasia was the only choice. The thing was she was pretty much retired because of heaves, couldn’t do a lot without coughing and difficulty breathing. I remember thinking when I heard and felt that huge deep breath that it must’ve felt so wonderful to her.
Amen. Unforgettable. Thanks, Sherry
Yep, we are oft-times kinder to our animal friends/companions, than we are to our humans. I still miss a human friend who took matters into his own hands after much research and time, but I’m glad he’s no longer suffering. A good death is a right to us all, that is sadly denied. As my crew age, I’m doing my best to be mindful and let go when it’s time. Thanks for the lessons.
It is a bittersweet thing. I wonder if a good death is a right?? Not here. thanks, Annie