Killing one of our own animals is a spiritual thing for me, and an awful thing, a traumatic thing and a beautiful thing.

Maria and I have taken care of Zelda for nearly 11 years, we have fed her, had her sheared, sold her wool for yarn, battled with her, cajoled her and admired her great will and independence.

There is really nothing more unnatural for me than killing something you have loved and cared for for that long. It is a Disturbance In The Field, rituals and routines seem upended, turn inside and out.

There is great satisfaction and pride in helping an animal to end its life with the dignity and comfort our culture rarely allows for human beings. Without bureaucracy and politicians and politics and regulations, we are free to care for the animals we love in the way we think best.

This makes me stronger, even as my heart sank into my stomach when I pulled the trigger and saw the confused and hurt look on Zelda’s face. Zelda gave me lots of trouble, but we got to a good place, one of respect and affection.

My world felt out of kilter, and yet it also felt very right. Nothing about life and death is simple.

She was one of the few sheep that wasn’t wary of me, showing up all the time with dogs. Zelda always posed for me, looked into the camera, came up to sniff my hand, she always permitted me to rub her forehead or scratch my back.

I can’t help but feeling a little like a betrayer by using that trust to shoot and kill her.

Maria and I both felt empty this afternoon, we took a ride together to go to Tractor Supply and get some salt and mineral blocks for the sheep and donkeys.

Earlier, I went to Albany to meet a remarkable young man named Pole, he is fifteen and has spent most of his life in refugee camps in Thailand.

His suffering did not end there, he was bullied and harassed at a local Albany high school and his parents got him to Bishop Maginn.  He is safe there. Meeting him felt good and healing for me, I’ll write more about him later.

It put my day in balance, doing good feels good.

The sadness and shock didn’t last. For much of my life, I could never have imagined I would be out in a pasture shooting a sheep I admired. Who could have predicted that? You can’t know what you’re going to feel, you can only feel it.

At the end of the day, I feel drained, yet uplifted, and that is the spiritual part, my real connection with Zelda.

I did my job, I did the last thing I could do for Zelda, and did it well. And what could be more caring than that?