It Takes a Village

Though we had come in kindness, to him, we were just another threat. The ache of that truth sat deep in our bones and so we retreated, regrouped and hatched another plan.

Minutes later, he was collared and coaxed into the sanctuary-bound kindness van.

It had already taken a village to get him this far. The kind hearts who had temporarily sheltered him, the council who granted him more time as no “owner” could be found, the people who kept watch and called for help and the lovely soul who has promised him a home once our work is done. And so we could think of no more fitting name for our new friend than Village.

Because sometimes it takes a village for kindness to complete its mission.

Village is a roughly four-year-old Wiltshire-cross ram, sporting a rather stunning beard that at first had him mistaken for a goat. He had been on the run for months, camping here, fleeing there, before settling in with some caprine companions. But it wasn’t where he could stay, despite it being the closest he’d come to feeling safe.

Because, like us, all he wanted was somewhere safe to land.

During his intake, a troubling detail emerged. The rubber ring placed around his scrotum as a lamb, a crude yet common means of castration, had been applied by unskilled hands, failing to “catch” both testicles. One had tucked high inside, causing ongoing discomfort that will require invasive surgery to put right.

And though Village is separated from us by form, he is not by circumstance.

When he was lost, fear ran through him. When he had no place to belong, belonging became his longing. And when something hurt him, it pained him just as it would us. His experience of the world was not unlike our own.

What threatens him—loss of autonomy, disconnection, harm—are the very things that threaten us. His desperate flight was not aggression, but self-preservation etched into instinct. He never set out to hurt, and yet our kind hurts, harms and harrows his kind every day, both legally and illegally.

As intake continued, his instincts roared back to life. Even trimming his overgrown hooves terrified him, for holding one limb at a time meant taking away his only defence: the ability to flee. But there was not a mean bone in this gentle boy’s body—only fear carved by experience.

Yet after his procedures were complete and he was settled into a soft, straw-filled stall and with sweet hay and fresh water, something quietly beautiful unfolded.

Something that caused us to pause.

Hours later, the change was astonishing. Those wild eyes had softened. The tension in his body had melted and the boy who flinched at our every movement was now sniffing our hands. His soft muzzle massaged our palms in a hopeful quest for another wheet-bix, as gentle curiosity had replaced terror.

And in that moment, Village reminded us, as only animals so honest can, how alike our hearts truly are. How fear can shape us, how safety can transform us and how trust, once earned, can humble us.

This is the quiet truth woven into his name: kindness is not an act; it is a community.

Village is living proof. His rescue was stitched together by many small acts of care, and together, those acts changed not only his world, but his view of it.

The story of this gentle ram invites us to take our place in the village. To show up, to stand up and to help create a world where no one, human or non-human, must run scared again.

A world where kindness is the default. A world we build together. And a world that looks a little more like a village.