Trottings Story

The Things We Do For Love: 22 years of Edgar’s Mission

Posted May 16 2025
Today marks 22 years since a pig trotted into life, tugged at my heart strings and took me in a direction I could never have imagined.

Today marks 22 years of his mission, our mission—Edgar’s Mission. And when I look back on everything that has unfolded across those decades—the heartbreaks, the healing, the growth—I land on a question I often ask myself: If I knew then what I know now, would I still have done it?

The answer comes quickly. No. Not because of regret. But because I am no longer the person I was then.

I am someone who has grown—and greyed. Who has learned, laughed and cried—more than my fair share. Someone whose heart has been broken, over and over, but who still believes in people.
And the value of kindness.

Who’s had trust betrayed and faith restored. Who has been gifted with the right wisdom at the right moment, more times than I can count.

I’m someone whose introverted soul has been pulled to centre stage—somewhere no introvert would ever choose to stand. And yet I do. Because the only thing I dislike more than putting myself out there is what continues to happen to my animal friends.

Because the things we do for love don’t just change the world. They change us.

I’ve learned the value of humility.
I’ve grown wiser by the grace of kindness.
And just like one inimitable pig, I’ve changed in ways I never imagined.

If I live to 100, I truly believe I’ll be the wisest old woman around—because of everything the animals have taught me.

And it all began with Edgar Alan Pig.
My pig. My muse. My greatest friend.
Edgar, I love you to the moon and back.

And then some.

As I reflect, I think not only of the years—but of the animals who shaped them. And so, to honour 22 years, here are 22 souls who taught me what love truly means:

Chloe, the lamb who grew into an old, old sheep. The one who taught me that gentleness is not weakness, but strength in its purest form.

Alice, the former breeding sow who found freedom and forgiveness in green pastures—and in doing so, taught me both.

Sunday, the lamb who died in my arms, but left a story that would become the beating heart of our mission.

Mrs Peaches, who showed that pigs can be powerfully large and powerfully kind.

Chicquin, the first rooster to steal my heart—and the one whose statue still stands, quietly, atop Edgar’s memorial.

Dilbert, a rooster with a disability and a love letter from his rescuer. He showed me that dignity belongs to everyone.

Gladys, the first goat we rescued—wise, calm and Mother Teresa in hoofed form.

Rusty, the second goat—and the reason there almost wasn’t a third! But oh, how I loved that rascal.

Claudette, a traumatised and terrified goat, who taught me the quiet lessons of trust and patience.

Buddy, a calf who we found after he fell from a truck. He died not long after—but proved that trying is never failure.

Brian and Georgia, two horses who showed that true love is not confined to just one species.

Catwoman, tethered for years, who taught me the power of a promise kept.

Macho, the alpaca who taught me what an alpaca spit really feels like.

Esmerelda, stoic and steady, who reminds me daily what tenacity looks like.

Ruby, the world’s most beloved dog, whose loyalty lives in every lick and tail wag.

Clarabelle, the dairy cow who finally got to raise her own calf and proved that a mother’s love is universal.

Red Baron, my cheeky, charming little rooster buddy—never underestimate a rooster.

Little Miss Sunshine, the ex-battery hen who changed hearts and redefined “bird brained” as a compliment.

Smudge, the calf with a cleft palate who didn’t live long, but who lit lives in his short time and reminded us to be the reason someone smiles.

Kansas, the lamb we almost gave up on. She reminds me every day to never, ever give up—and also how loudly I can yell her name.

And of course… Edgar Alan Pig. The pig who started it all. The reason for everything. My raison d’être. The one who showed me that love, when acted upon, can change the world.

22 years. 22 animals. Thousands of stories. Countless lessons.

And through it all, one truth remains: The legacy of Edgar’s Mission will not be found in what kindness looks like. It will be felt—in what kindness does.

It lifts—
It forgives—
It sees—
It heals.

It grows, just like love does, when we give it the chance.

So, if you ask me again, would I do it all over?

No. Because I would no longer be the same person. And that, I think, is the whole point.

Because the things we do for love don’t just change the world.
They change us.

Rescue Story

Becoming Luke

Posted May 16 2025
A true story of resilience, love, and second chances.

When kindness found Luke, it was almost too late. Emaciated, parasite-riddled, unable to stand—his was a body hanging on by a thread. His spirit dimmed by neglect. But even in those first frail moments, something stirred. A flicker. A will.

And so began Luke’s journey—not just to survive, but to reclaim life.

To become.

Our triage team moved swiftly. Fluids flowed, hope followed. By morning, there was a softness in his eye where fear had lived the night before. And though his body was broken, Luke began to believe.

So did we.

A blood transfusion gifted by dear Lambini bought him time. Just enough for Luke to claim it as his own. Each new day brought another step. A brighter glance. A stronger breath.

And a hunger—not just for food, but for life.

And our love.

Luke is living proof that the world’s cruelty can be undone by compassion

We helped him shed the lice-riddled fleece of his past, replacing it with trust and quiet joy. He began selecting his own grass, choosing life in every bite. He greeted us with gentle nods and leaned into our hands and hearts as if to say, “I’m still here—Thank you.”

Luke now walks with confidence, meeting new friends both human and ovine. Forming bonds with the ease of one who’s always known love—even if he hadn’t.

Though his ribs still show and a trace of green drool marks his battles within, Luke’s body is catching up to his spirit. That once swollen tummy, filled with parasites, now swells with nourishment and peace.

And kindness.

He is happy. Hearty. So incredibly friendly.

Strong—not in spite of what he’s endured, but because of it.

Luke is living proof that the world’s cruelty can be undone by compassion. That healing happens at the broken places when love is the glue. And that some saints really do walk among us—on four dainty black hooves, with a halo only the heart can see.

The road ahead for Luke is clear and kind. And every step he takes reminds us why we do this work.

Because no matter how dark the past, a different future is always possible.

You only have to believe.

And become. Like Luke.

Sanctuary News

We’ll Bring You a Banana

Posted May 16 2025
Dear Boots, our much-loved friend, danced his way into the next grand adventure yesterday—and in true Boots fashion, he did so with quiet grace, just as he lived.

From the moment we met him in the carpark of a petrol station 13 years ago—tiny, bright-eyed, and wearing the most adorable brown “boots”—we knew he was someone special. Found by our friends at Vic Dog Rescue while on a run to collect death-row-bound dogs from a remote rural town, this teeny Boer goat had already charmed everyone on his way to us.

And from that day on, we never—not ever—regretted saying yes to him.

Boots—or, better known to his buddies as Bootsie—was the kind of soul who made friends with everyone and enemies with no one.

He leapt (literally) into our lives with the wild glee of a Mexican jumping bean and the cuddliness of a teddy bear. His parkour antics became the stuff of sanctuary legend—and many a video capture—bouncing off trees, ricocheting off humans, landing in hearts, and exploring handbags with expert flair.

While the world knows that curly upper-lip gesture of goats as the flehmen response, we know it as the Boots face—his signature move that delighted our hearts as much as our smells surely delighted his.

He had a gift—not just for making us laugh, but for reminding us what joy looks like in its purest, most playful form. He taught us to make every day count, to be the reason someone smiles—and that someone should always include yourself.

But, as we know all too well, good things on this earth come to an end—and that includes our animal friends.

After a brave battle with kidney disease, he told us—in the gentlest way—that his time had come

Bootsie’s final chapter came with the quiet kind of knowing only animals seem to carry. After a brave battle with kidney disease, he told us—in the gentlest way—that his time had come. Not even his beloved bananas could tempt him on that last day.

And as he stepped into a stall in our barn and lay down in a bed of golden straw—a soft and comfy bed fit for the Prince of Hearts that he was—he let out a little sigh. A tear-jerking breath that said: It’s okay. I’m ready.

We weren’t. How could we be?

Helping him pass was the hardest kindness we could offer. But he met it, as he met all of life—calm, surrounded by love, with a little flehmen tucked away in memory.

Bootsie leaves behind a wardrobe-sized hole in our hearts and a lifetime of stories that make us laugh, cry, and feel. To say he was “just a goat” somehow sells his awesomeness short. He was a reminder that all beings are worthy of love, dignity—and a little adventure.

So walk on, little buddy. Walk on.
And please know this: we’ll see you again.

P.S. We’ll bring you a banana.

Trottings Story

Strategy

Posted April 17 2025
A strategy, simply put, is a plan: a thoughtful approach to achieving a specific goal. It calls for forward thinking, clever choices and a dash of resourcefulness.

And although no Harvard scholar, our very own Chris Mas knows a thing or two about strategy. He demonstrates it every single day. Take hay distribution, for example.

Due to the extreme drought sweeping across much of southern Australia, we run hay out twice daily to Chris and his trusty sidekick, New Kid, to keep them happy, healthy and—thanks to Chris’s antics—us humans thoroughly entertained.

Here’s how Chris’s strategy plays out.

The hay arrives. It’s delivered either in the middle of the small paddock or along the fence line—Chris’s strategy, you see, is so brilliant it works anywhere. As soon as the human leaves (or even before, if hunger outpaces manners), Chris shuffles into position. A few rearrangements for maximum comfort, a satisfying flop—and there he is. Snack, er, smack, bang in the middle of the hay.

New Kid, ever hopeful, approaches for a snack.

But no.

Perhaps it’s time we humans took a lesson from them. Perhaps it’s time we developed our own strategy—for mercy, for connection, for a more harmonious world

With the swift pivot of a seasoned goal defence, Chris swings his head left and right, blocking every attempt New Kid makes. Each movement perfectly timed, perfectly planned.

But New Kid has a strategy too. And it’s equally foolproof.

He lifts his gaze, something goats are famous for, toward the Lady in the Hat, perched in her cabin. Once he’s sure he’s caught her eye, he flicks his own—pointedly, plaintively—toward the hay pile, now crowned with one very self-satisfied pig.

Message received.

New Kid settles in patiently, knowing help is on the way.

And sure enough, the Lady in the Hat comes to the rescue. She sets up a second hay pile, far enough from Chris’s territory to ensure peaceful snacking. Balance is restored.

Both Chris Mas and New Kid have found strategies that work—for survival, for friendship, for living well together.

Perhaps it’s time we humans took a lesson from them. Perhaps it’s time we developed our own strategy—for mercy, for connection, for a more harmonious world where every being has a place.
Oh wait, we already have one.

It’s called kindness.

Its success, however, depends on everyone’s buy-in. And it begins with one simple question:

Can the animals of this world count on yours?

Rescue Story

Where are the good guys?

Posted March 19 2025

Neil Diamond’s story—the duck, that is—began on Sunday, 2 March 2025. But its roots stretch back to a busy wetland in Northern Victoria in 2006, when the Lady in the Hat had her baptism of fire during duck shooting season.

In the dim quiet of early morning, mist clung to the lake, reluctant to release its steely grip. The haunting serenity belied what was about to unfold.

Then it happened.

A barrage of gunfire shattered the silence as lead pellets and waterbirds rained down from the sky. The time? Minutes before the scheduled start of this legalised carnage. And as so often happens, the bloodshed had already taken hold.

As rescuers leapt into action, curses flew, and the Lady in the Hat stood, shell-shocked. Nothing—not countless hours of research nor duck rescue briefings—could have prepared her for this.

Then a bird fell.

Neil Diamond being held by an Edgar's Mission team member, he is standing on a blue towel
Neil Diamond the Duck receiving veterinary care. Neil’s story will have a happy ending – unlike that of so many native waterbirds.

A delicate white avocet. Unmistakably a non-game species. One that looked nothing like a duck. Her wings outstretched, as if trying to defy her human-imposed fate. Moments later, she fluttered helplessly into the water just beyond the reach of the Lady in the Hat.

“Where are the good guys to police this all?” was all the Lady in the Hat could manage, cradling the fragile, dying bird in now blood-tinged hands. A dagger struck her heart, and she whispered again, “Where are the good guys?”

Numb, cold and confused, she headed back to the onsite veterinary van. Along the way, she was joined by others—some seasoned warriors, others wide-eyed and teary. Yet each was touched by the senselessness of it all.

“Where are the good guys?”

And then she realised—she was looking at them. And she was one of them.

The rescue group including Pam Ahern with Neil
It takes a community of ‘good guys’ to stand up for ducks.

Fast forward to Sunday 2 March 2025. A call came in—an abandoned domesticated duck with a fishing hook embedded in his mouth. Clearly human kindness had failed him so far, but serendipity would not, as our rescue team was close by.

At a picturesque lake in Caroline Springs, the duck was quickly found. After failed attempts one, two, and three, hope wavered. Then—on the fourth try, with the help, wit and skill of Nigel Williamson—Neil Diamond was abandoned no more.

An emergency late-night dash to our dedicated and skilled vet revealed the hook had lodged in his cheek rather than, as feared, further down his throat. Once removed, something remarkable happened—Neil softened in the hands of kindness. His cheery quacks and confident waddles told us this was something the dear boy once knew.

So what of his past? We could only wonder. Where were his people? Why had he been so thoughtlessly abandoned? How had humans been so reckless that a barbed hook nearly cost him his life? (Another multi-barbed and sinister hook was retrieved from a tree, along with tangled strands of fishing line around the lake.)

“Where are the good guys to police this all?”

Neil Diamond the duck looks at the camera, he has a fishing line in his face.
Neil Diamond had fish hook lodged inside his beak.

With duck shooting season soon to descend on Victoria’s wetlands once again, Neil Diamond’s story does not end like so many native waterbirds’ will. He will not be blasted from the sky. Violence will not touch him. While domestication has spared him that grief, he has surmounted his own share of troubles and swum through to the other side. He now rests up with Garry, another recently rescued, once-abandoned duck.

Together, at sanctuary, they have found friendship, freedom and fortitude. As they shuffle along, side by side, their chatter is incessant, like long-lost friends reunited. And watching them, we cannot help but think they are quacking:

“Thank the heavens the good guys came to save us.”

Trottings Story

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Posted March 14 2025
When the stories we tell ourselves become our beliefs, they shape our reality.

As a wee child, my world encompassed the vast expanse that was set by the boundaries of my family’s small suburban backyard—the McGregors’ rickety wooden fence to the east, the no-go zone of the cat-hating elderly couple to the west and an old wood yard to the north. Yet within that space, my vastness of wonder was limitless. It was a world where Laddie, our goofy, loveable black Labrador, was my constant companion. And where bees, with their delicate wings and tireless buzzing, held me in quiet fascination.

A fascination that I still hold to this day.

I would watch them for hours, these tiny beings so intent on their purpose, inspired my own. Sometimes, I would offer my hand, cupping a weary bee in the chubby palm of childhood curiosity. I would feel the softness of their tiny honey-filled bodies, the whisper of their wings against my skin before they took their leave and flew away.

Carrying with them a piece of my heart.

It is time to become the storytellers of a kinder way of living

But one day, an adult voice sharply punctuated this communion. “Don’t touch them! They’ll sting you!” they protectively cried. But it was the final words of the lesson that saw me catch my breath and close my hand: “If they sting you, they die.” Horror ripped through me as fear settled in. And forevermore, I stepped away from the bees, from that connection, though never from my quiet reverence for them.

Rewriting That Shape Us

Years on, that moment in childhood taught me how easily a simple belief—whether born from truth or fear or self-interest—can shape the way we see the world. How a single phrase, repeated often enough, doesn’t just shape our beliefs—it becomes our truth. How fear can replace love if we let it. How irrationality can replace compassion if we are no longer curious.

And as I grew older, I began to recognise how many of the beliefs we hold about animals, “others” and the world are shaped by the stories we inherit. Stories rarely questioned, yet profoundly influential.

The term “farm animal” takes its roots in human convenience and is not a biological classification. It is a human construct, a story we have written to justify the unjustifiable. By telling ourselves that certain animals exist to be used, we create a belief system that permits suffering and any number of atrocities. We turn individuals into commodities. We justify confinement, separation, loss.

We stop questioning. Worse still, we stop feeling.

But the great hallmark of an advanced species is not its ability to build cities or send rockets into space. It is its ability to reassess old, inherited beliefs. To rewrite the stories that no longer align with our values.

Rewriting the Narrative

We must be brave enough to question the stories we have been told and the ones we tell ourselves. Where did they come from? Who benefits from them? What myths do they perpetuate? Who suffers? What truths and injustices are hidden beneath the surface of these long-held assumptions?

It is not always easy. Sometimes, pushing past our initial emotions—discomfort, guilt, fear—is painful. But if we fail to listen, if we refuse to question, we remain trapped in false narratives and inaccuracies, and we do not become the best versions of ourselves.

As natural storytellers, we humans often fill the gaps in our knowledge with assumption rather than curiosity. But what if we did the opposite? What if we opened those spaces to wonder, to compassion—not just for others, but for ourselves? What if we chose understanding over assumption, love over indifference, courage over convenience?

Sifting fact from fiction is a skill, one that can take time and effort. But it is worth it. For in doing so, we become not only wiser and more tolerant, but also more in tune with the truth of who we are and the world we wish to create.

Leo Tolstoy once wrote, “Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”

Perhaps this is where we should begin.

A new story of compassion

It is time to tell new stories—stories of kindness, of respect, of a world where animals are seen not as commodities, but as individuals with their own experiences, desires and right to live free from harm. It is time to become the storytellers of a kinder way of living.

Thank you for reading. Now, please look to your heart. Do you see the pen? The story is yours to write. What will you choose to tell?

Trottings Story

The fire is hot

Posted February 07 2025
A small child reaches out to touch the fire, the warning comes, “Don’t touch; it’s hot.”

An enthusiastic guest wanders into the kitchen, about to touch the sizzling wok, the warning comes, “Don’t touch; it’s hot.” An ember sparks from a campfire, a quick-to-act, but slow-to-think camper leans forward, bare-handed to pick it up, the warning comes, “Don’t touch; it’s hot.”

“Don’t touch; it’s hot” A simple phrase, almost instinctive, spoken as much for survival as for caution as for concern. It transcends language, resonating in the neurosensory systems we all share. The pain, should we ignore the warning, is immediate and visceral. Yet, it is here—in this shared capacity to feel—that our unity ends, for pain is no uniform force.

To one, pain may bring torrents of tears, while to another, it is little more than a quiet discomfort. And it is here we carry our diversity within the commonality of our biology—different thresholds, different reactions, yet the fundamental truth is the same, we all have the capacity to feel.

A capacity, however inconvenient many may struggle to accept, is one that extends beyond “us.” Though often forgotten, it weaves through the web of life, connecting we humans with all beings regardless of form. We are animals, after all, a part of the rich tapestry that is the animal kingdom. A part of it, not a part from it—linked by a biological continuity too often ignored.

A brown and black rooster with a bright red comb scratching around in the grass.

And when we pause to truly consider this, an unsettling realisation can emerge: the suffering we allow to befall animals—be it for our convenience, indulgence, or ignorance—is not so different from the suffering we fear for ourselves.

A cow trembling in the final moments before slaughter, a dog abandoned to the streets, a monkey caged for the sake of research—all feel the sting of pain, the pang of loss, the yearning for freedom. Yet we persist, justifying their plight as necessary, their anguish as insignificant. We subdue our compassion, clinging desperately to the notion that their suffering is somehow less than ours, a lie as old as civilisation itself.

But pain does not lie.

And neither does joy.

For just as they suffer, non-human animals also delight. A chicken uncaged, dances in the sunlight, her chirps echo her joy. A lamb gambols across the fields with their buddies, unburdened by fear. A dog, tail wagging excitedly, finds boundless happiness in the simple companionship of a friend, be that friend human or non-human

These moments, fleeting yet profound, remind us of the joyous life they yearn to live. One not so different from our own.

And yet, in our supposed age of enlightenment, we continue to look away. We refuse to cradle the thought of their suffering, perhaps fearing the fire of guilt and complicity. But the heat is there, growing hotter with every unheeded warning. For what we visit upon animals, we inevitably visit upon ourselves. Our shared earth bears witness to this truth: the loss of biodiversity, the emergence of pandemics, the unravelling of ecosystems—all speak of a balance disturbed by our hands and cold hearts.

Perhaps, it is time to do more than pause. Perhaps, it is time to act. To see not only the pain of others but their joy, their worth, their right to live unburdened by the choices we impose. For the fire we stoke with indifference and cruelty does not burn in isolation. It spreads, consuming not only them but us as well.

The fire is hot. And if we continue to ignore its warning, we may soon find there is no one left unburned.

Ruby the dog and Tottie (when she was a piglet) outside in the grass
Trottings Story

The sanctuary of your heart

Posted December 19 2024
If you were to look up the word “sanctuary” in the dictionary, chances are you’d learn it was a noun, further described as a “refuge or safety from pursuit, persecution, or other danger” or a “nature reserve”. However, here at Edgar’s Mission we’d like to take you on a journey to find a broader meaning to this word.

You may often see us referring to an animal arriving “at sanctuary” rather than arriving “at the sanctuary.” This is not a typo, and we have not had a mind blank and omitted “the”. It is a deliberate grammatical choice that invites hearts and minds to explore a deeper, more expansive understanding of what sanctuary truly represents.

When we say, “they arrived at sanctuary”, it goes beyond simply describing a place. Sanctuary becomes a symbol of something much bigger that transcends the physical. It symbolises a haven of emotional and spiritual safety. It’s a reflection of a commitment to care, compassion and protection — something rooted as much in our hearts and minds as it is in the land itself.

Once an animal or human arrives at sanctuary, they enter a realm of compassion that transcends geography. It becomes a way of living, a movement and a purpose. This transformation is not just theoretical, we see it time and again in the lives of those who find refuge here.

We saw this when the fearful slaughterhouse escapee, Captain Courageous, arrived at sanctuary. At first, he would run from our presence, his body would tremble, his eyes were wide with terror as he struggled to take his place in the serene flock. But all of that has changed as today, several years on, Captain Courageous is the true captain of his destiny.

His eyes are now soft, his body calm, his place in the world firm and it is to us he chooses to run.

There too is a philosophical dimension to this notion of sanctuary.  Just as “Country” in Indigenous contexts encompasses not just land but a holistic concept of connection, culture and spirit, “sanctuary” in this sense invites the idea that Edgar’s Mission embodies more than just a shelter for animals. It’s a living representation of the principles of kindness, non-violence and the profound respect for all life.

It fosters the belief that sanctuary is everywhere compassion and care are extended — thus, it’s more than a fixed location; it’s a movement, a purpose and a way of living.

Sanctuary is everywhere compassion and care are extended. It’s more than a fixed location — it’s a movement, a purpose and a way of living.

Omitting “the” also elevates Edgar’s Mission’s purpose. This subtle underscoring reminds that sanctuary is a fundamental and universal necessity. It offers a sense of timelessness, as though we are participating in a long-standing tradition of sanctuaries throughout history, without being limited to one place.

This speaks to the connectedness of sanctuaries through time and across borders, to a place where there are no borders or time constraints.

In short, using “sanctuary” without “the” shifts the perception of Edgar’s Mission from a specific place to an ethos, inviting others to see sanctuary as an ever-present space for protection, care and transformation for all beings.

And the best place to start living that ethos is in your heart. A place where every act of kindness, no matter how small, creates a sanctuary of the world.

I am truly blessed to live and be of service here at sanctuary — something I reflect on daily. None of this would be possible without the kind and generous support of you, dear reader. Your compassion is what fuels Edgar’s Mission and what makes all the difference.

From the bottom of my grateful heart, I wish you and your family a safe, happy, healthy and kind festive season.

Trottings Story

Worth the wait…

Posted November 19 2024
“You’ve got two weeks” will stand as four of the most promising words to ever hit our ears. They came in response to our desperate plea for more time to capture three wayward sheep who had strayed into a restricted conservation area.

On the surface, to many, the vast open grassy areas and tree-sheltered belts would have seemed a utopia for sheep. Yet, their presence amongst protected flora and native fauna only further highlighted the unsuitability of hard-hooved animals on Australia’s fragile soils. Soil compaction and heavy grazing can destroy indigenous plants that are food and shelter for native animals; young saplings, too, can be eaten, which plays havoc with biodiversity.

However, the sheep knew none of this and were there through no fault of their own. And as sentient beings, they deserved a sensible and humane outcome.

But would 14 days be enough?

These fearful and now wily sheep had long eluded many capture attempts. Even our own had come up short, with the sheep retreating into the heavily forested areas they knew like the back of their hoof. And they took with them more than their form. As they slowly slipped out of view and earshot, they took with them our hope. Even our compasses failed us in the remoteness of it all, with our only course being to retreat through the snake-infested and heavily vegetated areas.

In any other circumstance, this would have been an area of great beauty, with sweet-scented gums, inviting long and winding paths, and glorious views. But this was no trek in the bush. This truly was mission impossible.

“In any other circumstance, this would have been an area of great beauty, with sweet-scented gums, inviting long and winding paths, and glorious views. But this was no trek in the bush. This truly was mission impossible”

And so, leaning on the inspirational words of Pearl S. Buck — “The impossible is only so for now” — we took up the challenge. With the clock already ticking, many plans and back-up ones were hatched. But the one that proved successful, the one that bypassed capture pens and feeding stations, overrode stakeouts, and far surpassed anything previously attempted, was to be the one that enlisted the well-honed skills of our friends at Vets for Compassion.  Three cheers for Ollie and his superior running skills!

And we did so with 12 days to spare.

Whilst we will never be able to sort the fact from the fiction of their backstory, we are crafting their future. A future where the authorship of their lives is theirs to write. And although we hoped it would be one to include our friendship, only time would tell if they’d choose to accept it.

And in that space of eager anticipation, we find a learning — one that sees tension fade to acceptance, that no matter how much we want something in life, many things sit outside of our control. In this instance, it was not the universe, but three gentle sheep who held the wheel. In the serenity that comes with surrender to what will or will not be, we recognised that worry had no place. For, as the intuitive beings that sheep are, they would readily pick up on this, which would only hamper our plans.

Now, just over 210 days into our shared life together, the desire to become firm friends no longer holds the priority it once did.

And then it happened.

Ricardo, the elected leader of the trio, trotted up to us, stopping just two feet shy of where we stood. Looking us in the eye, he gently stretched his sweet merino head forward, and palpable was his thought: “Hello friend.” The more cautious Trisha and Dave watching on. Although if we were betting folk, our money would be on daring Dave to be next.

Yet in that moment, when Ricardo’s rectangular pupils met our circular ones, a connection was made—one that transcended species and left no doubt we were looking into the eyes of a being who possesses a mental life parallel to ours.

If only more people had the chance to ride on our shoulders and experience moments like ours with Ricardo, the blur of 78 billion farmed animals might seem not so faceless.

Perhaps, too, there’s a reluctance to see farmed animals as unique and wondrous individuals because of the implications of doing so. For surely, seeing these beings as intelligent, empathetic, aware and memory-filled would force a reluctant shift in the choices one makes.

However, in Ricardo, Trisha and Dave’s story, we have the opportunity to recognise the larger truth.

Looking back at Ricardo, Trisha and Dave, and seeing how their bodies are softer now in our presence, it is clear they no longer fear our kind. The unspoken barriers between us are no more. And in this moment, we are gently reminded that there is a grander scheme at play. 

That it was not only we who have been waiting for Ricardo, Trisha and Dave’s acceptance of us; the farmed animals of this world have also been waiting, waiting far too long, for humanity’s recognition of them. Waiting for us to see them beyond the label of “livestock”, beyond their ability to “serve” humankind, and to see them for who they truly are.

Someone and not something.

What better time than now to let them know it was worth the wait—and ensure a more compassionate world not only sees them, but affords them the respect and kindness they have long deserved. 

Trottings Story

To lose with grace…

Posted October 01 2024
She was scared and stepped away. Her movements taut, echoing the tension of her past. I longed to tell her I came in peace, to wrap my arms around her trembling body and whisper into her tattered ear all would we well. But she was scared and stepped away.

Though rescued from her painful past, Roulette’s fear still clung to her, just as her body still carried the scars. Heart-wrenching reminders of all she had endured.

I didn’t want to leave on these terms. My ego didn’t want to be cast as the enemy, someone to be feared. My good intentions did not deserve that I felt. And although upset and hurt by this all, I knew that was not her intention for she bore no malice. And I know too well the dangers that occur when emotions drive actions. “It’s okay” I softly cooed and offered my upturned hand.

Still frightened, she stepped back once more. Her fear was an invisible barrier we were yet to cross.

Recognising that grace is more important than victory it was my turn to step away.

For several more days we played from this script. A delicate game of Jenga. Of me stepping away before she did. An act that not only recognised her boundaries but respected them as well. 

I began to bring treats with me knowing full well she would not take them from my hand. Not yet anyway. And so, I placed them upon the ground before I slowly stepped away. My eyes averting hers in quiet reverence of her space.

After so many days of retreating, I had grown accustomed to our distant dance. To accepting that her trust would come on her terms, if it were to come at all. But on this day, it felt different. That unspoken void between us seemed to shift.

And then, it happened. The tension between us dissolved, replaced by something more unifying and serene. She exuded trust, and I felt it. I so joyously felt it.

She stepped towards me. 

Although each hoof fall was infused with caution something inside of Roulette had shifted. She even offered me a soft nicker. A tentative greeting that caused me to smile in return – she had recognised by face and my form.

And so a slow dance began between two different species who spoke the common language kindness. To a quiet observer it might have appeared as a delicate melody playing out. An ebb and flow that recognised a growing trust.

A trust that would have developed faster had my visits not been punctuated with those dreaded daily shot of antibiotics. But the risk of leaving that injection out was just too great as a raging infection still had hold of Roulette’s once putridly fly struck rear end.

But then something happened. Something that would change everything.

I had just left Roulette bursting with a joy I struggled to contain. But I did least I scare her. A wheetbix crumb dripping from her chin. That lonely little crumb told so much. It told that when Roulette heard my cheery voice, her head immediately looked up. She came towards it in anticipation of the good things to come. I did not disappoint.. I did not disappoint.

This journey with Roulette has reaffirmed many things for me. None the least that losing with grace carries more weight than the often-fleeting spoils of victory. It serves as a poignant reminder that trust, like love, cannot be rushed; it must be earned over time, in the sweet moments of patience and surrender. There’s a certain humility in letting go, and surrendering to what is. For the pace of progress may not be ours to hold.

Roulette showed me this the day she chose to step towards me. As her fear melted into something softer, she told that while one may lose with grace, they will always win with love. 

Always with love.