“To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter  

“The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.” – Mark Twain.

I became a hospice volunteer more than a decade ago because I wanted to understand death, and I ended up learning about life.

I bought a farm to live with animals and learn about life and ended up with a better understanding of death.

Over these years, between hospice, the farm and my work with the extreme elderly, I’ve seen many people and many animals die. I’ve learned from everyone. Death does not frighten me.

At first, seeing so much death up close was disturbing to me. Over time,  it very became beautiful, inspirational, and constructive.

I learned those good deaths come when people want them and plan for them.  And when their families are selfless enough to just let them go.

I’ve learned that good deaths only sometimes come to animals naturally, but especially when they are in the hands of caring people.

I’ve had some of the happiest, most uplifting, and meaningful moments of my life being with people when they die.

The same is true of animals. The more I know of death, the less I fear it, and the more I appreciate how much a part of life it is. Mark Twain was right. People who live fully have nothing to fear from death and most often do not.

Animals accept death just as they accept life, and there is so much to learn from them.

They have taught me how to die and how to feel about dying.

Yesterday, I shot Rosemary, a sick sheep, and the rifle jammed. Fortunately, I have learned how to shoot my gun well, and my first bullet struck her heart.

She looked at me with those wide eyes that sheep have when startled.

We weren’t especially close to one another, but she did accept me and trust me.

She seemed confused, as if in disbelief.

She didn’t panic or run or cry out. There was no anger or reproach in her eyes.

She came up to me and touched my hand with her nose as I scrambled to try to get the gun working. She seemed to be asking me for comfort, or perhaps, for death. She had been very sick.

I did get the gun working and shot her in the heart two more times. She got up closer to me and then lay down at my feet. I said, “I hope you understand that I don’t mean to hurt you, and I thank you for your trust and patience.”

If not my words, I thought she might grasp my tone. I think she did. I believe animals are masters of reading human intent.

She rested her hand on my shoe, as Zinnia often does. Then, after a few minutes, she lay her head on the dirt floor of the pole barn. She shivered two or three times and then shook.

It was a peaceful moment, and I know of no other word for it: it was beautiful.

And then I sat down to be closer to her and stroked her nose. I knew I wouldn’t get the rifle working in time, and it didn’t matter. She was dying, steadily and peacefully.

I don’t know if stroking her nose mattered; the sheep sometimes did like it. Maria could handle it, but I didn’t want her to see this, she waited outside the barn. She wants to learn how to use the rifle, but for now, I do the shooting. It works.

Maria always says she is sorry I have to do it, but I would miss it if someone else did it.

Rosemary and I sat silently for a few brief minutes, the life draining out of her. One thing I’ve learned – with people and animals – is that if you open your eyes to it, or at least if I do, I can see their spirit leave their bodies just before they die.

I’ve seen it in hospice and so many times on the farm.

It’s important for me to be calm and speak softly at such times, the last thing the animal needs is for a human to be frightened at such a time.

The spirit appears to me as a kind of thin and swirling mist, and it just rises quickly – often with a sigh – and vanishes up into the sky.

Rosemary had the most beautiful eyes, and they widened, and then I heard her sigh, and her spirit left us, and she was gone. It was a sad thing to see, but mostly a beautiful thing.

Helping an animal to leave the world as painlessly and peacefully as possible is perhaps the greatest responsibility of the humans who care for them, whether it’s in a barn or a vet’s office.

I see it as a sacred task.

Hospice has taught me that death is sad, but not only sad, also beautiful and full of light and love and meaning. Death is, in a way, the equal part of life itself. One has no meaning without the other.

Rosemary had a good life and was well cared for. That is all any animal we live with can really hope for. She loved Maria and was well treated every day of her life.

One of the hospice patients told me that what mattered was the good time given him before he died. I think this is true.

Our flock is young and vibrant again; we have a healthy ewe and three lambs. If you live on a farm in a rural area, you will learn about death soon enough, and if you don’t learn about it, you will leave it soon enough.

I live on the boundary between pets and animals, and the emotional experience of each is very different from the other. Pets get very close to us, animals also, but in a very different way.

I often have to shift mindsets when dealing with one, then the other.

If you love your farm, then sooner or later, you will have to kill some of the animals. Farms are eco-systems all of their own, and animals cull their herds naturally or sometimes need help.

And if you love dogs and cats, then you know death well. They just don’t live as long as we do, and I tell people who can’t accept that to get something else to love. Almost everyone reading this will understand what I mean.

Rosemary was very sick, spilling blood everywhere. She died in a place that was safe for her and around people who are safe to her. I do wish my rifle hadn’t jammed, but it worked out well.

I will never get over seeing death and watching how the spirit leaves a living thing. It is one of the seminal experiences in my life.

This always drives Maria and me even closer together; we spent the evening in peace, sadness, and thoughtfulness.

Rosemary was a child of our farm, and I surely feel her loss. But I have also learned to move on. Seeing death enriches and uplifts me and always makes me think.

It is a gift, and I give thanks for it.