The Suffering of Birch

Oakley gave birth to Birch almost 8 weeks ago now, a robust yet gentle soul who is kind and curious and sweetly attentive to his mama's instructions.

Yesterday marked the day he moved from buckling to wether, which animal husbandry folk understand to mean we castrated him (well me actually, though Mark held him). I am so indebted to Mark's various ways of stepping into the hard parts of what is required for me to tend goats, especially ones given the opportunity to have babies. He held Birch and spoke empathic words to him while I did my part. Because few animals whimper, groan or complain when in pain--their cues being far more subtle--often humans conveniently assume they don't feel pain and so speak of such matters as disbudding, castration, tattooing and branding in nonchalant ways, as though it is no big deal. While I can't know the extent of pain I caused Birch, I will not assume it was only a tad. So I choose to hold Birch's suffering with him yesterday and today, preferring to err on the side of compassion.

Such husbandry duties allow me to pause and contemplate my connection with these creatures of God that have come under my care. I aim to tend them with respect, acknowledging that they belong to God, not me, and appreciating the gift of life that enables them to experience their goatness.

I believe that Birch's domesticated life as a wether will be better. Later this week he will move to a new home with both his half-sisters, and still be male enough to exert his goatish desire to be in charge, a role he has been practicing with his grandmother and aunt. At his request they butt heads with him gently, but hard enough to let him know that he is not, in fact, the leader of this herd. As a wether he will not live a solitary life (as bucks generally do except when their services are desired), nor will he be housed with other bucks who are constantly in head-butting kerfuffles over dominance and rights, such as plague the male species.

I held Birch for a bit yesterday afternoon, and Oakley sidled up next to me and put her head under one of his forelegs, letting him know she was nearby, too. She sensed something awry with him, and sniffed his nether parts (as did he) to try to understand the why and how of what had transpired. He breathed softly, nuzzling his head under my chin and eventually nodded off, which I hoped meant the anti-inflammatory medicine I gave him beforehand was easing the pain. I told him he was not alone in his suffering, that God felt it, too. Just as God relishes Birch's airborne moments during fantastical leaps off stumps and the giant oak root ball where he plays king of the mountain with his half-sisters, so God also suffers his pain. That brought me comfort, and inasmuch as Birch is capable of experiencing something of his Creator, I let myself imagine it comforted him as well.

Something of all this feels redemptive--though I'm hard pressed to put easy words to it. Partly it is accepting that some necessary pain will be part of life. Another part is the goodness of bearing witness to suffering, and not minimizing it to make me feel less squeamish or more comfortable. Maybe the most significant part is remembering that no creature, human and otherwise, ever suffers alone.

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