I had a call this week from a new customer named Dawn. She got our information from Barb—my childhood friend’s mom. (Thanks, Barb!) After a quick chat, Dawn and I made a plan to meet at the farm this morning so she could pick up a few samples of our Lamb for her freezer.
When we finished, I asked if she and her partner, Ray, wanted to see a few of our young lambs out in the pen by the house. Ray said no. Dawn said yes.
Now, I understood Ray’s answer immediately. I really did. He was standing there holding a bag of frozen lamb, and I’d just invited him to meet a live one. That’s a tough thing to reconcile, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the way Ray felt about it.
So, Dawn and I went out to the new lamb enclosure, and we visited with the little ones for a while. As I sat petting one of them, I said to her, “It’s hard sometimes. I like them too—they can be pretty cute.” And as I said it, I don’t think she noticed the little tear that came to my eye.
Truth be told, I’m not much different from Ray. I’ve always been a bit soft-hearted. How I ended up raising animals for food… well, some days I’m not sure I know.
But here I am.
We love these animals. We care for them deeply. And we also understand the natural rhythms of life—how everything that sustains us comes from something else. We plant seeds, watch them grow, and harvest them. And yes, we raise animals, knowing their purpose, and do our best to give them a good life every day they’re here.
I’ve come to terms with it over the years. The trips to the abattoir don’t weigh heavy on me anymore. But that moment with Dawn reminded me of something: that little tear in my eye means I haven’t forgotten who I am.
And I’m okay with that.
Farmer Rod