Tag: animal connections

Lessons from a Little Brown Duck

~ Crystal Sands ~ 6 Comments

It is the end of an era on our homestead. Last Thursday morning, just a little after 8:00 AM, Anna Maria passed away.

She made it far longer than I thought she would after Luna passed a couple of weeks ago. For three days, Anna Maria sat and wouldn’t eat. I thought her end was very near. But, finally, one night, she came for the peas at bedtime and ate some. Then, the next day, she had some of her favorite wheat bread and ate more peas. I came to understand that she had been morning Luna. They were both old and near passing at about the same time, so they would sit together under the trees–just sit and be close for most of the day every single day. I didn’t understand the depths of Anna Maria’s sorrow until she started to get better. Of course, she was still near the end as well, and she finally passed late last week.

Anna Maria had a spirit and strength like I simply cannot describe. She went through so much but had such a will to live. She loved her life. It was pretty much as perfect as a duck’s life could get, I suppose, complete with peas every night before bed time from the servant and life with a flock that embraced her for who she was. The flock is still out of sorts without her. I have never seen them this upset for this long.

But there was so much I didn’t understand about Anna Maria. My way didn’t match her way, so for seven years, I did everything in my power to care for that injured, blind duck. Most often, she would hate me for it, though sometimes, she would come to me if she was injured. I never knew which one it was going to be with her, but I learned over time that it was going to be her way, not mine. And that was an important life lesson for me. It was one I wish I had learned sooner.

You see, my daughter, my oldest of my two children, has not spoken to me since last Christmas. I am so ashamed writing these words. I have always been of the mindset that if a child stops speaking to a parent it is on the parent to change and fix things, but I have not been able to do any fixing here. And it has been devastating.

In the last eight months, I have come to realize that my help for my daughter felt like control, though it was hard to watch her struggle so much–and she did struggle. Still, I realized a few months ago–thanks to Anna Maria–that she would rather struggle on her own and do things her own way and in her own time.

My epiphany came some time in late winter or early spring. There was still some snow on the ground, and Anna Maria would get stuck on the humps of snow. Since she was blind, rather than watch her struggle, if I saw her stuck, I would run outside, pick her up, and help her get to where she was going. She would always get upset though.

I always thought it was related to our history together. When I adopted Anna Maria, she had been badly injured due to over-mating, which is really common if you don’t have the right balance between males and females on a farm. The day I went to my friend’s farm to meet Anna Maria, my friend took me back to show me where Anna Maria had been rehabilitated thus far. There, in a crate, sitting quietly, sat a little chocolate Indian Runner duck. I could see her skull a bit, and I could see her eyes were a bit bubbly. I knew this meant sinus infection from the over-mating. She looked thin, dry, and tired.

My friend asked if I wanted to try to meet her, and by some miracle, Anna Maria went right to me. I held her in my arms for well over an hour as I toured my friend’s farm and the kids visited. Anna Maria never fussed, never left my arms, and seemed like she was meant to go with me. Now, after having Runner Ducks for over eight years, I deeply understand what a miracle this was. To say that Runner Ducks are skittish is to put in mildly. I will still never understand that experience with Anna Maria, except that she must have also understood she was meant to come with me.

But, oh my gosh! When I got Anna Maria home, it was on. I had to isolate and treat her, and she hated me for it. She bit and bit me during tub time when I would have to clean her sinuses. My arms were covered in bruises, and I was exhausted. I couldn’t believe what I had gotten myself into.

However, the day some months later I saw Anna Maria playing in the pool of water with the other ducks, it was all worth it. It was sunset, and the water droplets glistened as they rolled off her back. It was the first time I ever saw that duck experience joy–and it was pure joy. It was worth it.

I guess I just didn’t know where to stop with Anna Maria, especially after she went blind a few years ago. Her wounds never fully healed. It looked like they were healed on the surface, but Anna Maria remained fragile for the rest of her life. I definitely came to deeply understand long-lasting effects of trauma in my years with Anna Maria, and because of this, I am sure I over-mothered. The day of my epiphany, I decided not to run outside and help that little duck around the snow pile.

I just sat and watched out the window. For several minutes, she struggled. She kept bumping into the snow and getting turned around. She seemed distressed but determined. My instinct was to run save her from this trouble, but I resisted. And then, suddenly, it was like the nature of the obstacle clicked with her, and she went around and made it to her destination.

The realization came over me. Both Anna Maria and my daughter needed to struggle on their own and didn’t like my tendency to try to help too much, to try to fix things for them. They just wanted to figure things out on their own–at least sometimes. Sometimes, they needed me. I mean, there was more than one occasion over the years when Anna Maria was hurt and would come to me for help, but it was apparently my job to know the difference between the times when she needed help and the times she could do it herself. I needed to slow down and pay more attention to what she was telling me.

My heart broke because I wish I had learned this lesson earlier, before I lost my daughter.

Thursday morning, before Anna Maria passed, I held her a long time, just like I had done that first day I met her. She knew and I knew, and I think we were both thankful to say goodbye to each other. Ron and I put her in a bowl of water, so she could drink if necessary, but we knew she was close. I told her that I thought it was time to go see what else there is.

As I walked away, our male duck, Spyro, tried to mate with her, so I ran him off and moved her bowl to the other side of the fence. In this way, she could be near her land but safe from Spyro. This is life on the farm.

It worked out because she was right outside the kitchen window, so I could watch her while I made tea and coffee for me and Ron. I must have checked every ten minutes, and I could see her drinking sometimes but mostly being still.

Then, a little after 8:00 AM, I went outside to tell Boudica to stop digging a giant hole, and then I saw that Anna Maria had let go. She was still warm when I picked her up. I cried the big cry that hurt my chest. Giving into the cry felt worrisome though because of my long COVID, so I pulled myself together and realized I was just going to have to tough this out without giving into the grief.

Anna Maria was buried next to Poe and Sophie. All three of these creatures were my teachers of their species. I love my teachers.

The night before last, I received a message from my daughter’s partner that my daughter is struggling and might need me. I wrote back right away. I haven’t heard back.

Requiem for a Queen

~ Crystal Sands ~ 13 Comments

Day 129 of 365

How does one honor a queen with words? If I could write music for her, I would. All I have are words. I am such a peasant, but I have had the good fortune of knowing a queen. And, over time, she became one of my dearest friends. 

I am allergic to cats, so I didn’t have a cat in my life until we adopted our kitty, Sophie, in 2011. I had always wanted one, and Ron, my husband, had always been a cat person. I think he missed having kitties around. I assessed my experiences with cat allergies, and I seemed to do better with cats with lighter fur and longer hair. One Friday night, we stopped by the Humane Society “just to see what they had,” in case they had a kitty with light fur or long hair. The had one single adoptable kitty in the whole place. 

It was there that I met a kitty so beautiful I almost couldn’t believe it. Her eyes were large and green and outlined in thick black lines. She looked regal. And, in her cage, she was snuggling a soft blanket. 

“Well, she likes soft stuff, just like I do,” I told Ron. 

But we had to do an allergy test. The worker at the Humane Society opened the cage, and I gave Sophie some good, long pets—only her name wasn’t Sophie at that time. It was “Ginger.” Sophie’s fur was long and black and white. Ginger didn’t seem right for her, but that’s what it said on the card on her cage.  

We went home that Friday night and waited for some potential allergic reaction. It never came. I thought about her all weekend, longed for her, panicked at the thought that someone might get to her first. That Monday was President’s Day, so I had to wait until Tuesday. I called as soon as they opened that morning, and after teaching that day, Ron picked me up from work and took me straight to the Humane Society.

After a short interview, that kitty was ours, and I was so thankful. Ron asked me what we should name her, and I knew immediately it was “Sophie.” Truly, Sophie seemed to accept and appreciate this name right away. 

Sadly, she did not accept or appreciate me right away. I didn’t know how to pet or hold–or not hold–a cat. I didn’t know how to read all of her communication. I didn’t know that the belly was a trap. She showed me her belly, just like a dog, but I was not supposed to scratch the belly. Ron, the cat person, offered instruction, and it helped. He adored Sophie too and was so great with cats, but he held back to let me try to bond with her. 

My allergies also flared up. I struggled to breathe sometimes, and my eyes were a constant mess. I started taking some over-the-counter allergy meds, and they helped in the immediate. Over time, I didn’t need them anymore. Interestingly, either due to the meds or due to my allergies, I completely lost my sense of smell in the first year we had Sophie. To this day, my sense of smell has never returned. It’s great for cleaning the chicken coop, but it’s a heartbreaker that I can’t smell fresh bread or vanilla or flowers. 

Still, it was worth it. Sophie and I began to figure each other out. We both had trust issues, it turned out. Sophie was three to five years old when we adopted her and had already had a rough life. She had been found on the streets, covered in fleas, and due to allergies, she had lost much of her fur on her back legs and all near her tail, which wasn’t quite all the way grown back when we first got her (it would later fill in beautifully). She held herself back from me, and I, a little bit scared of those claws, held myself back from her. 

But, oh my goodness, she was regal. She held herself in just this certain way, with such dignity, so reserved and sometimes in full judgement of your simple human brain. Ron, who had had quite a few cats in his life, said that Sophie was indeed royalty, that she was unique in his experience. What an honor to get to live with a queen. 

And she loved my fluffy robes I would wear in our Maine winters. We had this in common. We loved soft and fluffy, and we bonded over this. I would sit on the sofa and call for her. Over time, she got to the point where she just couldn’t help herself. She would sit in my lap, snuggled into my robe, and knead and purr. 

Sophie’s purr was magical. It was deep and soothing. In my life now, I have met many cats. I have yet to hear a purr as deep and powerful as Sophie’s. We healed each other. I gave her the adoration and soft robe she required, and she purred for me, healing my brokenness. 

I will never forget the first night I felt safe enough to put my face into her face. In the first year, if I got too close to her face, she would hiss at me, so I just gave up. But, late one night, after about three years together, Sophie came up behind me to get into my lap for a nightly snuggle in my robe. For some reason, on this night, I just felt this urge to try to connect more deeply with her. I slowly leaned my forehead into her forehead, and, miraculously, she leaned in right back. We held this position for minutes, just taking it in. It felt like we were both saying, “I trust you.” It was one of the most powerful experiences I have ever had with an animal–and I’ve had some amazing experiences.

When a queen lets you get that close to them, you feel honored. 

We went along, so well, for years. We became so close, such good friends. She ruled our household with grace, and she fell into this absolute trust of me. I could touch her feet, her ears, and even her belly somtimes. She was my kitty teacher. Through Sophie, I learned what all the tail movements meant, the howls, the yowls, and I learned that cats love to get involved with both crochet and quilting projects. I also learned about how kitties love to “help” with puzzles.

Then, about three years ago, she started losing weight. I took her to the vet, and after some tests, the vet told me Sophie probably did not have long. “Maybe a year,” he said. “Maybe.” 

But I gave her the thyroid medications every day. And when her kidneys started to fail from the side effects of the thyroid medication, I bought the special cat food and did all the tricks to get her to eat that special cat food. I fed her six to ten times a day every day. Then, in late 2020, in the middle of the pandemic, I found a lump on her throat. The vet told me it would be a risky surgery for her because of her overall health problems but that the lump was blocking her windpipe; there was no choice but to operate. 

In the weeks leading up to the surgery, Sophie was especially clingy to me. She slept on my head and was with me at every opportunity. The day she had the surgery, in December of 2020, I was a wreck. I knew she might die in surgery, but I prayed to the universe “just one more year,” I begged. 

Sophie lived, but after the surgery, she was changed. The surgery damaged her vocal cords, and she lost her purr. She wouldn’t snuggle me like she used to. For a while, I thought she was just holding a grudge against me for the surgery. She was a fantastic grudge holder. Unfortunately, it was no grudge. She would try to snuggle me, but snuggling me led to purring, and the purring disturbed her damaged vocal cords, and then she would cough, and then should leave. She was frustrated. I was heartbroken. 

Still, there were good parts of our new existence. We had a woodstove installed during the pandemic, and she loved that woodstove more than I can express. A woodstove warms your bones in the Maine winter like nothing else I have experienced, and Sophie appreciated this. She would sleep in front of the woodstove, under the woodstove, beside the woodstove, and behind the woodstove. When our new kitties, Betty and Bella, came, they wanted to be in Sophie’s spots beside the woodstove,  but the queen would not allow it. And she usually stayed near me throughout the day. And she would still involve herself in all quilting and crochet projects. 

Then, September came, and she took a turn. She got very sick. The vet said it was time to prepare for the end. He looked me in my eyes and was a little teary, and said, “You did well. She made it far longer than I thought she would. You did well.” Still, as I do, I tried to remain hopeful, and I didn’t really want to entertain the possibility of the end. I wanted her to at least make it to woodstove season. She loved it so. 

It was not to be. Today, we took Sophie for her last vet trip. At about 12:45 this afternoon, my Sophie, my queen, left me. As she went to sleep, I put my forehead to her forehead. I wanted her to remember that night—and me. 

We decided to bury her on our property—not next to Gus—he hated Sophie, I think because she was his competition for my heart. Ron dug a grave for her next to my Poe. Ron actually worked as a gravedigger with his grandfather when Ron was young, and he digs graves properly. When he was finished, he came to the house and told me and our son that it was time to bury her. I picked up her little box from the vet, and somehow, we naturally formed a funeral procession. Ron and I both noticed this formation. We walked, single file, in mourning, from one side of our property to the other. Somehow, it seemed proper for Sophie to have a formal procession. 

Now, I get to figure out how to get on with my life without her. Because she had so many health struggles the last few years, my life is going to be so much easier. I will no longer have to feed her ten times a day or pick her up to her special spot for drinking from the sink every time I turn around. There are no more meds, no more helping her fight the mats in her beautiful, long fur that came at the end, as she got too sick to care for herself.

But I have lost one of the most magnificent beings I have ever known. I would give just about anything to be able to serve her again.