In Her Own Time

Just moments ago, as I sat beside her and gently stroked her wiry face for the last time, Polly told me it was time. Not with words, of course. Animals rarely need them. Her body, which had faithfully carried her through sixteen years of adventures, friendships, naps and mischief, could no longer answer the calls of her determined spirit. And so, with a heart breaking beneath the weight of goodbye, I whispered the only words that truly mattered.

And I did. I do. And always will.

Polly arrived at sanctuary in the very breath that followed Edgar’s passing. Though they never met, she somehow found her way into a place within my heart that had been left tender and aching. Grief leaves a certain space behind, and sometimes another being enters it, not to replace who or what was lost, but to stand gently within it. Polly did that. She simply arrived and, in her own unhurried way, helped love find its way forward.

For sixteen years, Polly moved through life exactly as Polly intended. Her whole life was a pig-headed rebellion against urgency. Affectionately known as The Bullet in one of sanctuary life’s greatest ironies, speed was never her strong suit. A sprint, by Polly’s measure, was a thoughtful amble with intention. Urgency, if ever attempted, looked suspiciously like interpretive dance.

There were the great races to the barn with Snuffles, who routinely left her in her dust, yet they would spend their nights sleeping peacefully snout-to-snout. She lived entirely as Polly—nonchalant and yet particular, affectionate and wonderfully sure of how the world ought to be. From helping herself to a newly purchased GPS (we are sure the returns department are still talking about that one) to turning the office into her personal gymnasium as a tiny piglet, she asked nothing more of life than the opportunity to inhabit it completely.

Which is the same as what she did to the hearts of all she met.

One night, beneath the moon, she stood with me and Hansel, our gentle big steer, and the three of us simply looked upward. Though nothing grand happened, we were united in awe. A girl, a pig and a steer, with the moon above us and the earth beneath us. For one small moment, the world felt exactly as it should.

And because of pigs like her, perhaps one day it will.

That was Polly’s gift. She reminded us that animals are not background characters in our lives, nor commodities to be used and forgotten. They are distinct hearts beating with their own joys and sorrows, asking only to live out their days in peace.

Perhaps that is why her passing feels so profound. Because Polly understood something that we humans so often forget: we spend our lives behaving as though time is guaranteed. Saving things for later or delaying a kindness needed. Assuming there will always be another opportunity to say the words that matter most.

The greatest gift Polly leaves behind is the reminder that time is precious not because of how much of it we are given, but because of what we choose to do with it. To love deeply, to notice wonder, to share our lives generously and, above all, to be kind.

Especially to pigs. Because most of them do not have enough time either.

Goodbye, dearest PolPol. Thank you for every race you didn’t quite win, every laugh you inspired, every quiet moment shared beneath the sky and every lesson you taught simply by being yourself.

You arrived after a goodbye and somehow helped heal a broken heart. And now, in your own time, you have gone.

Godspeed, unhurried soul. May your paddock now be endless, your straw bed always deep and your food bowl forever full.