Life and Death on the Farm

"…But I tell you life is short. Be thankful because before you know it, it will be over. 
Life is sweet, and life is also very short."

~Natalie Merchant

Muscovy ducklings born on the farm
Farmer Nic (2018)

In the course of a single week, we had a series of deaths and births at Table Bluff Farm. 

This is not an uncommon occurrence for any farm, but even so, no births are ordinary and no deaths go unmourned. It's common knowledge that farmers are continually in the business of sustaining life, making room for new life, or letting go of life. Truly, the farm is just a microcosm of the world in that way: things are being born and are dying, and everything else keeps on as before. On the farm, that means that the ducks still need to be let out of their hutch even when a mysterious illness kills off the chicks, so there's no time to cry right now…not even time to bury them until the other animals' bellies have been filled and the plants' roots, quenched. 

The same goes for the births. The chickens still need water even when the sows are in labor, so there's no time to celebrate as you're delivering. Even more, relishing a delivery well done can be reckless when chores start in a couple of hours and no sleep has yet been had. The pace of farm life can make you compartmentalize your feelings, to set them aside for later when you have the time to unpack them. But as our busy lives carry on, unexamined feelings can become buried under even more untouched emotions. This is why I find it cathartic to take the time, even if it comes later, to honor the creatures that have taken their first and last steps here on the farm.

The Deaths

A chick that just wasn't thriving
Farmer Hannah (2018)

Some deaths on the farm have little to do with anything we did wrong. Take, for example, what we experienced with a delivery of stressed out mail-order chicks. We ordered 200 of them from our usual online store and they arrived within 24 hours of shipping. This was our fourth or fifth such delivery in the two years that we've been farming, and we knew what to do to set them up healthily. One chick wasn't doing great (it looked like she had a case of 'splay-leg,' when chicks haven't developed strong legs and they tend to slant towards one side, making it difficult for them to walk or clean themselves), so instead of leaving it to the 398 trampling feet of 199 other chicks, I took the chick with me to work in the hopes I could at least keep it alive. 

Of course, as I should have known, you can't just take a newborn baby chick to a workplace and not expect some questions. As I talked more and more about this disabled chick and as more and more of my workmates cooed over her, the more and more attached I got. For two nights, my chick wouldn't sleep unless I was holding her on my chest or between my palms. Only then would she sleep soundly. She seemed to do better during the day, but would be weak again each morning. I urged myself not to get attached, as her fate was probably already sealed. And besides, even if she did live, what kind of life would it have been? Flopping on the ground, unable to preen herself or scratch for food, things that a chicken is born to do, would it be cruel to sustain her life just for the sake of living? She passed away as I held her in my lap two nights after she arrived in the mail, and all I could think is, at least she didn't die cold and alone. I hated that she had suffered and I hated that the company had sent us birds that arrived unhealthy and I hated myself for not knowing the best way to heal her. I sobbed and hated myself even more for not being able to stay disconnected from her, unable to listen when I had warned myself that this chicken was not bound to live. What could I have done better? And how could I miss a creature that I had known for less than 72 hours? And then even more abstract thoughts raced through my head, unbidden. If this is how I feel about a chick, what would it be like to lose a child? How could I take the risk of bringing something so precious into the world with so many ways for it to die? How could I possibly think I could bring something that was part of me into the world without being a nervous wreck all the time? Does the good outweigh the bad? Every little life is so fragile, and I wonder what a chicken thinks about as it lays dying...

Our broody mama Australorp and
the chicks she hatched
Farmer Nic (2018)

So there are those deaths, the ones that we had little part in playing but are heart-wrenching nonetheless. And then there are deaths that we unintentionally, but directly, caused. Those are the ones that hurt my feelings the most because their prevention was possible had we the foresight to see potential hazards. Two such occurrences happened within days of each other one week: a chick drowned and a duckling's neck broke. 

One of our Australorp chickens—a notoriously broody breed—took to laying eggs in some tall weeds behind our barn. When we went to cut down the weeds, there she was, sitting on about thirteen eggs from what we could see. Rather than shoo her away and collect the eggs (who knew how old they were after all?), we decided to try letting her brood on them and see what happened. We brought her food and water so she wouldn't have to leave the nest for too long. Three weeks later, we spotted her leading seven chicks out of the nest in search of food and water! We gathered them up and put them all (mama, too) in a stall attached to our barn that was enclosed and secure. I put in a small waterer for the chicks and a bigger tub of water for the mama hen. The edge of the waterer was much taller than the chicks, and they were almost always tucked under their mom's feathers rather than out exploring. I didn't give it a second thought that I might have created a dangerous situation for the chicks…in fact, I felt good that I knew they would all have enough water to last for the whole day rather than needing an evening refill. During chores after work the next day, I went into the stall to make sure there was still food and water, and I noticed that the chicks were out and I could only count six of them. I reached for the tub of water and saw that a chick had gotten in and drowned. My heart sunk. Its death was completely my fault, though I had not meant it any harm. 

At about the same time as the chicks were being incubated by the broody chicken, our Muscovy duck Lolita appeared at the back fence with seven ducklings in tow: she had laid eggs in the adjoining woods, incubated them, hatched them, and now was bringing them around for food and water. We quickly gathered them all, with mama in tow, and raised them in a large tub so they could be together and we could protect the ducklings. As they outgrew their tub, we moved them to one of the other stalls attached to the barn, and they continued to grow. Lolita started venturing out of the barn to bathe in a nearby water dish, and her ducklings followed, sunning themselves and snacking on grass. One day after work, I was scrubbing out a waterer for the chickens while Lolita and her ducklings were relaxing in the grass in front of their stall door. Farmer, our very large Great Pyrenees/Anatolian Shepherd livestock guardian puppy, was watching over them nearby. He got up and walked over towards the stall door, which had rotted off its hinge and was being held up by a pallet. With one brush of his clumsy body, within a matter of seconds, the pallet tilted backward and landed on one of the ducklings. It got up briefly and then slumped over, its neck crushed. Farmer didn't mean kill anything, and really, it could have been prevented in the first place had we fixed the stall door. That made me cry quite a bit, more angry at myself than anything.

Our first pig Shamu on her last morning
Farmer Nic (2018)

And then there are the deaths that we intentionally caused, like when we raise and then slaughter our meat chickens and pigs. Even these lives are not taken joyously, but thankfully. As a former vegan, I don't take slaughter lightly. As someone who now chooses to eat meat, there are certain standards I have for consuming it. One such standard is knowing where the animals were raised. When we purchased meat in the stores, we had no idea what kind of lives those animals had led. The not knowing is harder to me: I could be purchasing meat from an animal that was tortured. We control the quality of life the animals have here on the farm, and I know our animals are pampered. Another thing we couldn't control when we eat store-bought meat is the way that the animals perish. You never really know if the animal you are consuming was slaughtered humanely or not unless you know the farmer personally or see it done yourself. We let our pigs run around the property for an hour or two, eating grass and soaking up some sun, before they die. That way, they aren't stressed and they aren't forced anywhere they don't want to go. In fact, they wind up dying on the best day of their lives. In this way, our own path of consuming meat is more sustainable and allows us to walk our talk. But I tell you, it's still hard.

The Births

Piglets exploring

Farmer Nic (2018)

While it is certainly essential to draw a clear picture of death's ever-looming presence on the farm, one of the upsides of farm life—witnessing tiny creatures grow up—is just as important to highlight. It is perhaps the very best part of farming and makes the hard times bearable. We have had three different species give birth here on the farm, and each experience has been as exciting as baby animals in your backyard can be. 

The most notable births here on the farm were by our two pigs, Cinnabar and Velvet—pregnant at the same time, but two wildly different births. The experience of helping an animal at least twice your size give birth to twelve tiny wet beings, each within five minutes of each other, was something I will never forget. Receiving each little body as it emerged into the world, clearing the mucus out of their mouths to help each one take its first breath, watching Cinnabar nursing her new babies…it all was worth the month of sleepless nights of preparation, with us being first-time pig parents and all. Two weeks later, our other pig Velvet gave birth to one small boy who we named Concepcion. He, in turn, will be responsible for the future births of even more scampering piglets. What could be sweeter?

Chicks arriving from a stressful mail journey.

Farmer Hannah (2018)

The poultry births, as I mentioned before, were bittersweet for their immediate entwinement with death. But I try very hard not to dwell on those that died; instead, I try to learn from what happened and better prepare myself to take care of those that lived. For one, we have decided to start investing in the equipment to breed and hatch our own chicks. They won't be stressed out right at the get-go of life from shipping in the mail—making for more robust birds—and we will be spending money on helping chicks thrive instead of wasting money on needless suffering. (So stay tuned for locally hatched chicks!) We have also spent time designing death-proof brooders for our chicks and ducklings. With their propensity for getting squished, drowning, and wandering into dangerous situations, we have constructed raised wooden platforms complete with tall walls, raised heat lamps secured with a clamp, raised water dishes (with both electrolyte water and regular water), multiple access points for food, and we haven't had any environment-related deaths since. As for the deaths that I just really can't prevent, the best remedy I know is doing my absolute best with the knowledge I have (and always actively learning more) to promote health amongst the animals I help raise.

~~~

I see the circle of life more sharply since I started playing a part in its rotation for the lives around me. Births on the farm—while joyous—always carry a grey cloud of doubt around them. Seemingly healthy, young lives can be lost in a matter of minutes while others withstand the odds until they perish of old age. I hope for the best, we do what we can, and still death looms. Have we done enough? Too much? Will something happen that we can't fathom? I have spent a lot of time worrying and despairing, and there's no antidote equal to solidly knowing that I am giving them the best start possible and the rest is unknowable. It's letting go of having absolute control (or really, it's letting go of the notion of having absolute control), and forgiving myself for any knowledge I may have in the future that I don't have now. 

I also see more clearly that life is fleeting and life is hard, and life is sweet and life is beautiful. I think the key is to recall the sweetness while we are going through the pain; to know that beauty will appear again and to recognize it when it comes, for it won't last forever. Our animals teach me daily that life and death are always present. Rather than fear or avoid death, I can instead acknowledge its existence and spend my energy on life. Death may loom, but life surrounds.

Concepcion and Farmer Hannah

Farmer Nic (2018)