Agnus—We Tread

We had only learned of her a short while ago. And yet she has known this world for just under a year. And judging by the state of her body, that world has not been kind. But it is not the sight of her that first raises the alarm. It is the smell. That stomach-churning smell of necrotic tissue, mixed with the unmistakable presence of blowfly strike. We know it all too well.

And it has cruelly claimed almost half of her small, bony body. Tipping the scales at far less than she should, this little lady has a long road ahead. The task of removing the flesh-eating maggots is not one for the faint-hearted, but we press on. Our hands gloved, our movements measured.

Patiently, she stands. Or perhaps more truthfully, she is too exhausted, bracing for what must feel like yet another predator. As we begin to clip away her overgrown fleece, the question is asked, what shall we call her?

There is something quite profound about naming animals. Perhaps it is why so many choose not to. Because to name is to see. And to see is to feel. And to feel is to carry the weight of what follows.

Agnus.

We pause when we look it up. Agnus comes from the Latin, meaning lamb, with roots in the Greek, meaning pure or innocent. And in that moment, it feels as though the name has always been hers.

When our work is done and she settles into her bed of golden straw, for the first time in what must have been a very long while, she lets out a small sigh. It is as if she knows that no more harm will come.

If there is something to take from this, perhaps it is this: That when we choose to tread a little more gently on this earth, we begin to create a kinder world. One where lives like Agnus’s are not defined by suffering and measured in dollars for flesh.

But by the chance to simply be.