“Oh God, I think I’ve broke my bloody arm” – although the decided kink in my forearm should have removed any qualms over the use of the word “think”. I was nine years old and had just fallen from my pony, and in doing so felt pain, real pain, for the first time in my life. In the weeks that followed, a plaster-cast restricted both my movement and thoughts of living a long and pain-free life. It was a watershed moment. Up until that point in my life, my strict Catholic upbringing had caused me to believe that God had placed a little bubble over me as he had done all his special children, one that would protect me from pain and suffering, ensuring I would have a long and happy life. Indeed, I wanted to live at least until 100 and in doing so I would get a cake, my picture in the paper and a telegram from the Queen.

Now, almost 50 years on and over half-way to that lofty goal, the thought of all three no longer has the same lure – cake I can get at any time; I’ve had my fair share of pictures in the paper; and perhaps, just perhaps, there’s a little bit of republican in me after all. With that passage of time too has come many an opportunity to further ponder life. And death. And I can say with great confidence that few things give you greater clarity into life and death than sitting at the helm of a not-for-profit sanctuary for rescued farmed animals.

As someone whose life has constantly been intertwined with that of my beloved animals, one of the many things youth tossed my way was the fact the lives of my animal friends were never destined to be as long as mine, despite how much I wished them to be so and despite the very best of love and veterinary care that could be provided. I recall with great sadness the passing of my dear sweet Lexie Good Doggie as he lay cradled in my arms and my love, his life slipping slowly away as the lethal green dream coursed its way through his weary veins. I couldn’t hold back the tears, heartache or the thought that surely there was something more that could be done – it shouldn’t end like this. I recall wanting to demand the vet stop, “let’s wait another day”, “let’s try another drug”, “let’s try something else” – anything that would abdicate me from the responsibility of being the one to make that deathly call. Anything that would circumvent the regret I had for not spending more time with my canine pal, anything that would placate the thoughts of my failure to my friend. I often think now that the latter is an overarching reason many people hold off euthanasia for a much-loved companion animal, which sadly only prolongs the suffering. I now draw comfort from the fact that one cannot call it too soon; however, one can most certainly call it too late, appreciating all the while that we all arrive differently at this point.

It’s tragically ironic that the decision to end the life of a companion animal pains us so, yet daily the lives of countless “other” animals, with no less capacity to experience the world and all of her magic, does not raise a blimp on our ethical radar. Their deaths are an unquestioned consequence of our living. Desensitised has society become to the suffering, anguish and pain, both physical and emotional, society has bestowed upon the animals we have labelled “food” and “fibre”. We have discounted their worth so much that their lives barely matter beyond a cursory glance or piece of watered-down legislation (and one that is heavily weighted towards our living, not theirs). Few will mourn their death or celebrate their life. But in knowing them, in really knowing them, it changes not only their lives but ours as well.

I recall with great discomfort the unbearable pain I endured when a tooth root died deep in my gum – pain like I had never encountered before and pain that nothing could rein in – pain that I would never wish upon anyone despite their most evil intent. Guiding me through that night was the bitter-sweet knowledge that come morning, a dentist would be able to extricate from me both the tooth and that hellish pain, although every second lasted an eternity. The experience left me with a new-found appreciation of just what pain and suffering mean.

Whilst life is indeed precious, something to be celebrated, treasured, honoured and respected regardless of who the holder of the life is, in equal measure, it must be one that is worth living. Bearing witness to, and responsibility for the passing of so many animals over the years has imparted many things, not the least that death is not the worst option, particularly for an animal trapped in a pain-ravaged body with no relief on the horizon or never likely to be. And for animals who live overwhelmingly in the moment, when those moments hold so few positive or joyous experiences, the duty then shifts to caregivers to make empathetic decisions on the animal’s behalf, however hard that is for our hearts to bear.

Whilst the passing of every animal I have had the privilege of serving always sends a dagger into the piece of my heart they have claimed, it too brings a sense of calm that I now arrive at sooner. Acknowledging that it is a moment in time, one which lasts for just that moment; it exists in just that moment and it is then claimed by history; it is gone – the pain, the suffering are no more. This does not mean death does not move me: it does, it undeniably does. But what happens next I now know is of my choosing. I can choose to live in the wake of grief, heartache, unfairness, and all that is bad in the world, or I can choose to leave the pain behind, in the past where it belongs, for it can no longer touch me or the animal again.

This does not mean that grief will not visit me when I least expect it (or sometimes do). What it does mean is that it will not strangle my desire to continue to make the world a kinder place for animals nor bitter my spirit to soldier on and keep making those tough calls. I’ll honour the knowledge gleaned from past experiences with all those beautiful dear souls who have gone before – experiences which nourish my soul, not punish it. They serve as a constant reminder that in a world where we humans hunger for the meaning of life, it is there for the taking in the joy a lamb experiences from gambolling for the sheer hell of it, for the ecstasy a pig finds in wallowing in the mud like there is no tomorrow, the sense of wonder a cow has as she stares off into the sunset and the bliss a chicken feels as she drinks in the sun’s rays on a autumnal day. And whilst I know the darkness of death will continue to shadow my life, it will not block out the light or frivolity shone by those animals, in all their glorious forms, who have come into it. And, most importantly, I now know too that the quality of one’s life is not measured by its length, but rather its content. It is for this reason I have chosen to rethink life and death and live a life where my daily choices do not involve the unnecessary death of animals.

As the frightened young goat trembled in the corner of his stall, we knew it was going to take something just shy of magic to bridge the chasm between us. Upon his arrival only moments earlier, we worked both diligently and gently: checking vital signs and temperature, administering parasite control and checking weight. Puff could well be forgiven for thinking that this exchange with humans would not be any different from all those that had gone before and had justified the quivering fear he held for our species. In short, his was a life bankrupt of kindness. And only a short life at that, as judging from his teeth, it was not long ago he had rounded the corner from kid to goat. Yet unaware was he of the new possibilities that lay ahead for his curiosity and choosing. His wide eyes searched the stall for something to rest upon, and that something was me. Our eyes met, and in that short exchange I truly believe Puff caught a whiff of the notion, “This time WILL be different,” and as he let out a little sigh, I lowered my head and left.

He really is a sweet boy, a very pretty goat indeed with big bug eyes that pop out from under his black brows; his brown coat with black piping here and there sets him off as a most dapper lad indeed. Recovering as he is from his surgical castration, one performed under sedation coupled with pain relief and kindness, Puff is coming to terms with his new world, swapping the pungent scents of his past for one filled with sweet-smelling hay, golden beds of straw, the company of his own quirky kind and my outstretched hand of kindness ‒ a magical world where we trust all of his dreams really will come true.

Literally standing at the crossroad to his future, a lost young ram pondered his lot. In the scheme of things, whichever path he was to find himself on, it was not going to end well. It never does when your worth is determined by the label that has been placed upon you. But this is where a watershed moment took place, as the frightened animal was struck, not by a fast-moving vehicle, but rather kindness, and suddenly nothing was ever going to be the same for Damascus. Such a sudden shift of fate was to see the sweet-faced young ram blinking in wide-eyed wonder at the world he now found himself in. The soft golden straw around him, along with the equally soft voices he heard, gave some hint of the kindness that was to follow.

Damascus, now several weeks in, is finding not only his feet and confidence but a taste for wheet-bix, sweet hay and hand-picked green grass ‒ quickly realising that we are the dispenser of these, we have been elevated in his eyes from people of suspicion to people of merit.

Yet his kind remain vulnerable, innocent and so poorly protected by our animal welfare legislation. Animals such as Damascus pull at not only our heartstrings but our actions.

Actions that daily see us awake with a determination to cause others to see these beautiful individuals for who they really are, not what they can produce. They too are a poignant reminder that you never know what (or who) you will find on your road to Damascus that will bring about a better version of yourself.

All the better to catch you with my friend! At only a day old, Lamby Longlegs had known more hardship than most. With his mother sadly passing away, the future of the frail and innocent newborn looked bleak at best. But kindness had other ideas. A kind-hearted family came to the lamb’s rescue, bundling him up and carrying him to the safety of the nearby farmhouse. With a quick, “Do you want him?” uttered their way, the lamb’s fate was sealed and he was ferried to safety before being Edgar’s Mission-bound.

Outside of the crucial first 24 hours in which colostrum (antibody and nutrient-rich ‘first milk’ from mum) can be absorbed, Lamby’s first days with us were tinged with trepidation. We hoped his mother had been able to give him one last parting gift in the form of the liquid gold to steel him against illness and infection. Whilst not out of the metaphorical woods yet, Lamby is taking great strides toward a long and healthy life. Some, quite literally as he quickly formed a bond with Lambington Steele and keeps stride with the older lamb as they merrily race around their nursey and day yard.

And whilst we hope Lamby Longlegs has many long years of happiness before him, we also hope that a kinder world for lambs will be upon us before too long.

The premise? A female at the helm of a successful private investigation firm struggling to attract clients cannot help but wonder if another way is possible. Try as she might, with more qualifications than she could poke a stick at, Laura Holt could not shake the feeling that her gender was the cause of her firm’s non-existent client base. Enter Remington Steele, the fictitious male superior who was to ‘oversee’ Holt’s company in a desperate bid to drum up business.*

The current premise? In a country where an estimated 15 million lambs die each year from exposure to the elements and other preventable causes, we cannot help but wonder if a kinder way is possible. Enter Lambington Steele, who came into our care at only days old after being found abandoned on a lonely stretch of rural road. Investigating his world with wide-eyed innocence, we shudder to think of the outcome Lambington would have experienced had kindness not intervened.

And whilst the fictional Remington Steele turns out to be the alter ego of a thief and con man who goes on to win Holt’s affection, there’s only one thing our Lambington Steele is out to nab. And that is your heart.

*Whilst this plot held general appeal to audiences at the time, we truly hope such a gender-biased ploy would not be deemed acceptable in today’s society.

Bewildered, dehydrated and confused, the exhausted young wether lay motionless on the roadside. As the harried footsteps of his flock echoed out around him, still he remained immobile, the heat of the day and his journey too much for him to bear. With his companions moved on from the roadside to their rightful location, it was clear the stricken young Merino was in need of more than just a helping hand. This was the moment Rowan found kindness.

A kindly heart recognised that without intervention, innocent-eyed Rowan would not survive and so his safety was sought. Our rescue vehicle was immediately dispatched and we waited with bated breath, clinging desperately to the hope that we could achieve the outcome Rowan so deserved.

At around six months old and alone likely for the first time in his life, Rowan had every reason to flee from our presence. It was evident this is exactly what his instinct as a vulnerable prey animal was telling him to do. The fact he did not spoke volumes to how exhausted the dear boy was upon entering our care. With all hands on deck, Operation Save Rowan soon commenced and despite still being wary of mankind, Rowan rallied quickly and has grown stronger with each passing day. With Teddy on hand to provide comfort, a warm shelter to protect him from the elements and fresh food to nourish his body, Rowan is well and truly on the right path to a full recovery. With new friends on the horizon and tasty wheet bix treats awaiting him, we know it will only be a matter of time before Rowan too knows the day he found kindness was only just the beginning.

Mrs Bucket (pronounced Bouquet, if you please) lives to impress. With her rich red and white plumage and bold personality, she most certainly achieves exactly this. However, this was not always the case, with Mrs Bucket recently finding herself with no home of her own. Keeping up Appearances and also in need of a new roost were Mrs Slocombe and Miss Brahms, two colourful ladies in need of a little kindness. Rounding out our quintet of recent avian arrivals are the Absolutely Fabulous Patsy Stone and Edina Monsoon, firm friends doing their very best to fit as much fun and frivolity into life as possible.

Whilst the tongue-in-cheek names of our latest arrivals may sound like the casting call of a British sitcom, unfortunately the plight of many hens is far from a laughing matter. Time and again we see calls to surrender hens because they no longer produce enough eggs or those genuinely needing to rehome hens being met with queries along the lines of, “Do they lay?” Sadly, when dear girls like Mrs Bucket, Mrs Slocombe, Miss Brahms, Patsy Stone and Edina Monsoon are viewed as no more than egg-producing machines, it leaves them with very few options when egg production naturally slows down or ceases. Not only is this view a disservice to the birds, it also robs us of the opportunity to get to know them for who they truly are; little ladies with larger than life personalities who do indeed believe high society is the only way for them.

So, as we welcome our most recent arrivals with open wings and arms we ask, “What’s being served here?” Quite simply- it is kindness.

Written almost a century ago by The Rooftop Singers, “Walk Right in”, with its catchy tune and lyrics, has been recorded by countless singers and pop groups over the years. Chances are, if you are familiar with this song, right about now it will be on high rotation in your head, as it was ours as we watched a determined Angus heifer walk right in to our sanctuary (and our hearts), navigating two fences en route, and sitting right down amongst our herd. What came next was to almost break our hearts, but that was before we realised there was another verse to sung.

With our duty to contact her “owner” fulfilled, we were advised that the prized cow could not be collected for some days. Marching her up the laneway to the designated collection point on that fateful day, unspoken words were exchanged between us all, including Wanda and her new friends. Hoping beyond hope this united melody of kindness could be fulfilled, a last-ditch phone call was made and then this message was sung out across our radio network, “All stations, all stations, please update our bovine numbers by one. Wanda is ours!!” Perhaps you too heard our joyous cries of delight, maybe even the excited moos of Wanda’s friends as she trekked back down the laneway to them.

We will never know just why Wanda decided to join our herd that day, but what we do know is that once you let a cow wander into your heart, your life truly will never be the same again. Welcome Wanda, welcome.

Seeing a sheep take up residence on his property and hearing the call of his heart, the kind Samaritan knew what he had to do. Without the means to provide a loving forever home for the dear Dorper ram, the necessary calls were made, the boy’s future secure and he was soon Edgar’s Mission-bound.

First published in 1960, Harper Lee’s Pulitzer Prize-winning To Kill a Mockingbird bravely explored themes that were seen as somewhat controversial, even by today’s modern standards. Touching on the issues of prejudice and justice, the story explores moral codes and a society affected by them, with central character Atticus Finch making the leap from fiction into real life to become a model and inspiration for many in the legal profession. Despite his folk hero status and fictional role as the outspoken voice for the oppressed, Atticus Finch continues to divide the masses with some labelling him a hero and others questioning the effectiveness of his approach.

And so, we could think of no better name for our recently arrived Dorper ram than Atticus. At around 18 months of age, our Atticus too has the ability to divide the masses, quite literally as his bottle reared personality and testosterone-charged mass see him run headfirst into a crowd, human or otherwise. However, when we look at Atticus, we do so without prejudice and it is not an evil or a dangerous creature who we see but a sensitive and aware being who sadly has been wronged by humans at some point. We see that Atticus is merely carrying out behaviour which feels natural to him as an animal who was likely raised by humans. And we know he needs us to be his voice as he learns to navigate his new world. We heard Atticus call for the company of his own kind and since being castrated, he has since made friends with members of our ovine clan where he is slowly learning the sheepy language and step by step, learning to trust us.

In seeing animals like Atticus we are reminded of our power. Their fates are decided according to the prejudices we hold against them, what label our society chooses to place upon them and, of course, who we allow ourselves to see when we look at them.

And for sheep like Atticus, we only hope that more people will listen to their hearts and begin seeing an animal who deserves a whole lot more.