So, you want to be a farmer? My name is Farmer Anne, and I run a small farm animal sanctuary in Maryland.
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Anne Schroeder, President
Star Gazing Farm, Boyds, Md.
So, you want to be a farmer? My name is Farmer Anne, and I run a small farm animal sanctuary in Maryland. Um, correction: I live and work on a farm sanctuary that is headed by a 180 pound Alpine named Mr. Newman Goat. Four years ago Mr. Newman just showed up, and he's been running the place ever since. It isn't too surprising that a goat would be chief of staff at a farm sanctuary; goats have the smarts, the analytical tools, the strength and bull-headedness to push through difficult times, decisions, and barn doors—and they also have a highly discriminating palate.
When you take rescued [farm] animals in, you take their physical and emotional well being to heart as well, and you cannot simply treat them like livestock.
When I first dreamed of starting such a place—an idyllic dream of happy sheep dancing through fields, cows delivering morning kisses, all manner of birds singing and chirping the sunny days away (all of which is true, does happen, and is, indeed, idyllic), I did not stop to consider the underpinnings of farm life: Fencing. Drainage. Manure removal. Hauling 300 60-pound bales of hay to a second floor loft in 95 degree heat. Nighttime illnesses requiring constant vigilance in below-zero weather. Poisonous plants. Trespassers. Worry. Financial burden. And death.
As a former city slicker, I'd like to state for the record that farm life, whether a traditional production farm or a farm sanctuary, is not for the faint of heart. The good days are good. The animals happily munch on grass and hay all day, take afternoon naps, have their early evening skirmishes and settle in for a peaceful night's rest under the moon. Donation checks come in the mail, new requests for visits and offers of volunteer help pour in, and all the bills are paid on time. The farmer spends a few hours cleaning buckets, shoveling out the barn, puts out feed at the appointed hour not getting assaulted by any horned beasts in the process, and goes to bed happy.
Then there are the other days. I'm not complaining. No, I'd never go back to city life, both because I wouldn't want to and because Mr. Newman Goat wouldn't stand for it. But here's a reality check: when you take rescued animals in, you take their physical and emotional well being to heart as well, and you cannot simply treat them like livestock. You can't put them in the field and say: Here's your hay, here's your water, lots a luck, Bucko. They want to be talked to, and they insist on talking to me pretty much nonstop. They ask for and expect daily massages. Yes, really. They strongly prefer clean areas to live in, which means that the maid (aka me) is always on duty. Shoot, there are days when the barn is cleaner than the inside of my house.
They like to have fun, which includes breaking down doors and fences and having adventures. And running a farm is expensive. It's not just the feed, and it's not just the vet bills. You've got to have and maintain an infrastructure that provides safe containment and shelter; you've got to pay attention to the health of your fields; you've got to regularly grade out roadways and entrances to barns. And then there is fencing.
But at the end of the day, no matter how deep the mud is, no matter how many bruises I sport, no matter what the financial books look like, this place is blessed. The animals are free, happy, and safe. And that is worth everything.
Star Gazing Farm, Boyds, MD
Source: ASPCA
storyPhoto Credit: www.roustaboutaussies.com