On farms there’s death and then there is Death. A heavy body. Or no body. There is, “oh ok I think I understand this,” and then there is, “what in the name of God happened?”
There is old age that seems to be galumphing along just fine and then gathers speed and whacks somebody over the head… and age morphs into death. Again. And again. Sad, but not astonishing, really.
Of course, this time of year there are the foxes. Their babies are getting bigger and, bold in the daylight, were out last week. And so were the silly ducks.
There is illness and accident, parasites and headbutts, slip and falls and escapes into the neighborhood. Falling trees, fences that reach out and snag a horn, holes in the ground, nails sticking out of barn walls, diarrhea, maggots … It’s all here, and, contrary to a romanticized vision many people have due to cute children’s books and the great liar the Internet, Farm Life is not Quaint. “Good morning dear, here is your daily dose of misery and manure.”
Would that my arms were big and wide enough to collect all of my animals close to my breast, to hold them, to protect them from all the bad things. Would that I were ever vigilant. Oh wait, I am… except when I let my guard down on a Saturday night and putter around the house, take the trash out, and as I do give a greeting, “oh, hello sweet Hopkies, you can’t come in this door, let me go around to the side.” And then I forget. Like a human. Like a goddamned stupid human. I go on to feed the small animals, to administer meds to our sick turkey. And I forget again. And then I wash the dishes and the phone rings, and sweet, fat, one-eyed Hopkins is utterly gone from my thoughts. Forgotten. Forsaken. Left alone outside where he often wants to be but deeply does not want to be on this evening, this hot July evening.
Balancing the needs of all of the animals on this farm, some weighing only a few ounces and some more than a ton, is an enormous undertaking. But I heartily toss and catch them in the great circle of life and caring and worrying, feeding and medicating, each creature passing through my hands and I’m able, just for a moment, to touch each one. And then up they go again as they cheerily follow their friends in the greatest juggling act of all time. It’s harmony, harmonious. It’s life. It works. Until I blink.
And bless their hearts, they let me have this fantasy that it’s me who is doing it all, maintaining this insane and proud circus act. But they know. They appreciate my B+ efforts. I really think they do. It’s why the llama peers through the glass on the back door asking (really, demanding) cookies, why the cows give sandpaper licks. It’s why they come running in a somewhat terrifying swarm when I cry out, “come on, come on, sheepies, come on goaties”, because that high-pitched cry means food. It’s why the cats line up at the back door asking to be let in, and then out, and then in again. They know all they have to do is look at me and I’ll do as they ask. Trust.
But Death cares nothing for Trust.
I don’t cry anymore. Not really, anyhow. The tears are either dried up (do we get a limited number of tears in our lifetimes?) or so deeply ground in to my bones and flesh that I might disintegrate completely if tears were to escape.
And on a beautiful and quiet Sunday morning as I behold the still form of this animal whom I loved so, so much, the screams inside my body hardly trouble the surface of life on the farm, even as my question becomes too large for my head to contain. Who did this?
Who killed my cat?