Alpaca Farm

Alpaca Farm

Oil on black canvas, 20x20

This morning, this wet and rainy and cold and dreary morning, Doc picked up a fallen baby bird from the wet grass and brought it to its death, or nearly to its death, which is even worse. I got it away from him and put it on a paper towel outside of the yard. I don't know if it was dead yet, but there was no way to save it. I could not bring myself to deliver the final blow. Couldn't.

The poor thing was tiny, teeny, and wet to the skin, and I can't stop crying about how scary and cold and painful its death must have been. I got so mad at Doc that I made him and his sister go into their crate, and I am mad at myself because I know it is just his nature, and I shouldn't be angry. Doc couldn't have grabbed the little bird from its nest, so it must have fallen or been pushed, but no matter what happened, it's just broken my heart on this gray, cold morning. 

I said a little prayer for the teeny bird, and apologized for Doc's part in its death, and for mine. I just hope the tiny thing passed quickly into peace, out of pain, into a soft, warm place far away from here. 

When I was young, I wanted to be a veterinarian. I failed calculus, and that ended my hopes. Now, I am thankful, so thankful, that I didn't make it. There's little in life that makes me more sad than seeing an animal in pain. 

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There is no Dog of the Day today. I just can't. 

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A Final Thought

"Art is to console those who are broken by life." 

- Vincent Van Gogh