The Circle of Death

Death is a funny thing.

Well, okay… bad choice of words. What I mean is, one’s perspective about death, I’ve learned, is somewhat relative to the kind of life they lead. Being on The Ranch, I’ve had the opportunity to view the real nature of the circle of life, birth and death and everything that comes in between, as a rhythmic, cyclical perpetuation that makes up the flow and balance of nature.

As a child, I can remember stumbling across an injured bird, flittering and flopping about from the trauma of a broken wing. I ran inside, crying to my mother, who helped me collect the fragile thing in a shoebox which we padded with grass and leaves. I watched over that bird maternally, hour after hour, watering it with a medicine dropper, clinging to the value of its individual life, never questioning its purpose or meaning. Frankly, I don’t remember what became of the little bird – whether it lived or died in that shoebox – but I know how precious those moments were in the development of my own compassion, caring for this suffering creature without regard to the cosmic course of life and death.

I wonder what is different about that bird – about my long ago self and who I am now – that I don’t see things in the same light, anymore. Birds die on my front deck at least once a week here, smacking into the window-glass too quickly to survive the impact. More than once now, I’ve had to assist a dying animal with its suffering by hastening its death, most notably of which was a blunt-force blow with a shovel to a broken-necked swallow. Sorry about the gory details, but the truth is, that’s a frequent reality out here. If I attempted to rehabilitate every fragile creature on The Ranch, I’d be running a full-scale rescue operation. Part of my learning, here, has been in figuring out how to let things be… how to sit quietly and let the world go on without my interference.

I’m unclear, still, about the value of life and the timing and function of death. If Husband shoots a coyote predatorily stalking our pastures and threatening the barn cats and other creatures making their home here, is the kill justified? I cried when discovering the lifeless body of the drowned kitten in the horse trough, but winced and gagged at the skunk corpse curled up outside our bedroom, mouth frothy with evidence of its traumatic demise. Materially speaking, a cat and a skunk aren’t that different – both have a central nervous system capable of experiencing pain, both are furry and full of curious antics. Yet the death of one is tragic and another, honestly, somewhat of a relief. One down… several more stinkers under the bedroom left to go. Whether that’s a heartless or reasonable perspective, I’m just not sure.

I’m not a vegetarian, and to be candid, that doesn’t bother my conscience much. As I write this, though, Husband is out in the pen, feeding mineral oil and medicine to a cow by the dropper, petting and loving on and talking to the animal in a selfless effort to ease its obvious pain and nurse its troubled gut, all while our family dog gnaws away on the bony remnants of last night’s beef roast. That whole picture, to me, is mildly disturbing, somewhat fascinating, and (sorry, but) oddly humorous.

My point, if I have one at all, is that it’s curious to me how we process the notion of death – how we horrify and also justify it. Our perspective on the subject, even in the course of an hour or a day, can see death as a gnashing sort of grievous torture and/or just the way things are – part of the “circle of life”. Foregoing any (more) philosophical waning on the whole notion, I'm just thinking out loud here - wondering, observing - the curious ways we go about coping with life's unpleasantries.