Cold winds blow across the pasture, whipping through an empty barn. All is quiet there now. No activity, no visitors, no occupants. Today, there is no reason to hurry morning rituals to trek a bucket of feed there. It is the first time since that barn was built early last fall that it has been standing alone and quiet. Its stillness belies the tragedy of yesterday.
Sunday, January 3, 2010, was the end of an age here at the farm. Our beloved bull, Buster, was put down and laid to rest beside his good friend Red near the pond that edges the front hay field. Our friend and neighbor kindly undertook the task, as it was just too much for us. Rich bore witness, as I, I hid in the house, crying. Two loud rifle cracks, and it was finished. It was humane and quick—no suffering for Buster. And, with a tummy full of grain and a banana—his favorite food in the world—we said goodbye to our gentle friend.
Buster’s end was brought on, not by disease or malice, but by a single act of chivalry that defined him. On Labor Day, when Anabel, his daughter, was born, Buster used his own body as a shield to protect both Anabel and her mom, Scarlett, from the rampages of his own son, Buster Brown. Buster Brown, you see, was quite at odds with the birth of a calf that wasn’t his, and he was intent on fixing the situation. Buster didn’t allow that. And, during the battle that ensued between father and son, and according to what we can gather from the vet’s vast experience with these things, Buster Brown rammed Buster, and with a lucky hit, broke his femur near the ball at the hip joint.
For weeks, and then months, we watched as Buster’s condition slowly edged downhill. We stalled him in that arena barn in the pasture, faithfully watering him, feeding him, and making sure he had plenty of hay. But, it just wasn’t enough. Buster was unable to use that back leg again, and was forced to hobble around the stall, muscles in atrophy and the strain of moving his bulky body more than he could endure. We wrestled with what needed to be done, not wanting to undertake such a task during the holidays. Instead, we made Buster as comfortable as we possibly could until yesterday. Then, with his breakfast finished, we opened the stall door, and he slowly hobbled out. He found a nice, grassy, sunny spot not far from the stall door. He managed to lay down in the cool grass with the sun shining on his face to enjoy his morning. You see, Buster’s gentle nature and sweet personality never changed, not even during the intense suffering he must have endured with an injury like that. Not once did he ever strike out or show an ill temper. During his last hours, he was joined by a herd of goats, Rocky, the paint colt, and his long-time pasture mate, Newman, while Falcon and Dixie stood watch in the distance.
In the words of Crazy Horse, it was a good day to die.
Now, in our grief, we have one bright hope. When we finally do make it to heaven, our farm will be well stocked. Along with Red, Two Socks, and Sophie, we look forward to seeing Buster there, grazing, happy, and whole again.
I love you, my friend.
