Rocky’s passing was an important milestone for me. It focused my attention on the poor regard and little respect we have for death in our world and the little real thought we give to it. It reminded me that many of us are taught to believe that death is the worst thing that can happen in the world, and that anything else is better and more humane. Thus thousands of animals languish and suffer in crates for years so that people can feel good about themselves. And thousands more live in pain because people can’t let them go. People who choose to end the suffering of animals are almost always considered thoughtless and cruel, when they are often the most brave and compassionate.

Our vet came by the other day, and she told me how often during this cold and wet winter she gave thanks that Rocky did not have to suffer through it, did not have to take those aging legs through mud and ice, did not have to try and stay warm in a dark and unheated stall, did not have to deal with the new animals and people in his life. How merciful, she said, how compassionate.

I am grateful that Rocky did not have to go through another winter, and grateful also that Maria and I chose not to keep him alive so that people could praise us and feel good that he was existing beyond reason or meaning. In our rush to love animals, death is almost never considered a merciful option, yet in my life with animals the most compassionate acts I have ever committed have been helping suffering creatures leave this world, from lambs to dogs to donkeys.

I have learned so much in my time on my farms with my animals, and Rocky may have been the greatest teacher of all. He taught me to pay attention to Florence Walrath and her home. He taught me about the strength and endurance of animals.  He showed me the generous spirit of Red, and the donkey ethos of Simon, a real animal in the real world of animals. Even when they are blind and infirm, animals show more acceptance and endurance than most human beings. The script calls for us to mourn and grieve death, even when it is a blessed release. I am still haunted by an elderly man I met in my hospice work who had been in a nursing home in Argyle, N.Y.,  for nearly a decade suffering procedure after procedure, wheelchair bound,  many trips to the hospital, many surgeries and medications. One night, when Izzy and I were alone with him, he leaned over and grabbed my arm, and looked me in the eye. “Please help me die,” he begged.

I told him I couldn’t do that, I could not play God, I lived within the laws and customs of our world. And then I went outside and vomited in the nursing home parking lot, sick to death with our  shallow notions of life and mercy.

I am grateful I was not bound by the visions of other people when it came to doing the very same thing for Rocky, a blind Appaloosa pony nearing his 34th year. He had endured quite enough. I wrote on the blog recently that the farm had really come together, the animals easy with one another, and someone posted a message on Facebook saying she only wished that Rocky were present to see it.

He is present, I answered, in every bale of hay, every gate and fence, every trail in the pasture, every trip to the barn.  He is the architect of the new farm, the Godfather, the enduring spirit. There is no reason to mourn him,  I celebrate both his life and his death. I believe Maria feels the same way, although she can speak for herself. I am nothing but grateful for Rocky.

Of all the good things he helped me see and learn, perhaps the greatest was to follow my own sense of what it means to be a merciful and compassionate human being. To love and trust my own decisions about what it means to be good.