My empty pastures speak to me, the ghosts of my life here part of the soil, built into the barns. Carol dying in the Pole Barn (the middle). Maria and I getting married in the big barn (the shadow.) Opening up Bedlam Farm to the Pig Barn Art Shows (to the left). Restoring each barn, shoring up the foundations, painting each barn. Rose’s ashes scattered below the pole barn, where she patrolled. Rabid raccoons and skunks shot there. Foxes attacked there, and howling blizzards covered the barns countless times. Orson buried up on the hill. Lambs born there, lambs died there. Emotion to be leaving, but when all is said and done, sad is not really what I feel. More the need to honor the memories there, the storms, the falls, the coyotes creeping down the hill, Rose charging up, then Red.

My first winter here on that hill, reading to the dogs from St. Augustine in the chairs at the top of the hill, taking the sheep over the hill into the woods, feeling that first gorgeous embrace with the natural world. I am off soon to make new memories, see and make new ghosts, chronicle new adventures. I have the crew to do it – Red, Lenore, Frieda. Lulu, Simon, Fanny. Cats and chickens. And Maria, my heart and partner. Empty pastures that were once full and will be once again.

My work is to chronicle the real life of real animals in a very real place. It is not always cute, does not always work, is not always happy or pretty. In our rush to love animals, we sometimes think we can create paradise for them, a perfect world in which they never know pain or fear, suffering or brutality. But that is not the real world of real animals, and I hope I never shy away from telling that part of the story as fully and truthfully as the part that is cute and endearing. The empty pasture taught me this, so much real life happened there.