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Autumn Hollow Sanctuary |
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The following story appeared in the December 2006 issue of Synchronicity Magazine. It is the story a mare we had the privilege of knowing for a short time.
For Love of Lola
By Autumn Domoslai
We lost our beloved Lola last night. She died shivering in the cold amidst muck and snow. The wind bit into dry skin like razor blades. What it must have felt like to flesh caked in mud and icy, dirty water cannot be imagined.
Lola came to us in early May, a walking skeleton fostered here by another rescue that sees too much pain and death. Neighbours…horse people for years…told us they had never seen a horse that thin and still breathing. She was about eight years old, judging by her teeth…barely an adult. Shy and gentle, she seemed to want nothing more than to eat and hide in the shadowy barn. We set to work with her right away, putting her on a supplemented diet. She would receive T-touch and massage therapy, sponge baths and grooming. Her special friend became my daughter Twyla. Lola shadowed her, following meekly wherever Twyla went. She loved the attention and put up with cats sharing her water and baby goats weaving in and out around her legs with never a complaint.
Other horses come in, some in terrible shape both physically and emotionally. Some are simply unwanted. They are all beautiful, shining spirits with much to give…but Lola! How special she was. She never gained much weight or strength. While the rest of the small herd would gallop joyfully across the meadow Lola would look after them with longing in her soft, chocolate eyes. Then she would slowly try to plod after them. By the time she had taken ten wobbly, careful steps, they were already on their way back, manes tossing and tails held high. It was heart breaking to watch. If I could have carried her myself, I would have. Yet at times they would all gather around her sharing mutual grooming, gossiping back and forth in their own horsey way.
So many come here to Autumn Hollow Sanctuary. It was my daughter’s plan, this place for the unwanted, sick and lost creatures that we share this planet with. When she was very small she said she wanted to save the animals. That idea never wavered, never changed. She is 13 now, yet in her eyes I sometimes see a hundred, hundred years of compassion, determination, stubbornness and above all courage. She is my hero, my Twyla.
So we went ahead and bought this small farm south west of Alberta Beach where Twyla could live her dream and where her dream would become mine as well.
We knew there was a lot of work that needed to be done. It still needs to be done, but as soon as word got out of an animal rescue, they began coming. A trickle at first and then a flood. One at a time and sometimes by the carload. Animals of all shapes and sizes, injured, unwanted. We specialize in equine and parrot rescue but that doesn’t stop others from coming and we take in as many as we have room for. The problem quickly became space and the ability to feed so many mouths…at one point up to 30 kittens, dogs, rabbits, llamas, sheep, exotics of all kinds plus the birds and horses.
We are not a registered charity. We just do this, out of our own pockets and without a lot of red tape. So money is an issue when it comes to feeding so many. We have all gone without, but you just do it. No complaints. No compromise.
And you learn a lot about people as you do in any rescue operation, whether you are rescuing animals, people, forests…any part of this Earth that deserves saving.
You learn that there are others out there who are willing to do whatever it takes to create a better planet and care for those in need who cannot care for themselves. You also learn that there are those who commit acts of cruelty and destruction that are utterly beyond your comprehension and many more willing to look the other way while it happens. People for whom the bottom line is money and they are willing to blackmail your emotions for the sake of it. We only hope that what we do lends a little more balance to the whole equation. It’s just that sometimes you feel like a very small voice in the wilderness and you wonder if it’s making a difference. This Sanctuary, this dream of Twyla’s…where she is there at my side, unflinching, through indescribable messes, blood and vomit, where we bear witness to suffering and death…it is also a place of rejoicing at a miraculous recovery or at the finding of a Forever Home for one small soul crying out for love.
While Twyla’s precious Lola lay dying, Twyla made the long journey, cool and dry eyed, from the house to the barn and back countless times. She fetched buckets, stethoscope and medicine. She made phone calls and coffee for all of those who were there to help. She took off her coat and laid it under Lola’s head. And when she wasn’t running through the chill night she sat near the suffering mare’s head, whispering to her, stroking her face, trying to keep her warm.
In the inky darkness as the bitter wind howled among the trees, Twyla didn’t beg me to let Lola live a little longer. She looked at the suffering animal and made the call to end her agony, though it meant she would go through an agony of her own at the loss.
As Lola’s laboured and ragged breathing tore from her pain racked frame, everyone who had come to help gathered around her, laying hands on the blankets and coats that covered her shivering body. Each said their own goodbye. Twyla bent over her beautiful face and kissed her. I knelt in the snow and laid her head on my lap then. As the vet administered the injection, Twyla called out “I love you, Lola”. Lola’s ears suddenly perked alertly forward. She lifted her head slightly, eyes wide. She gazed into the distance and then she was gone. As the last breath left her tortured body I was sure I could hear her hooves galloping away into the night wind.
It was only then that Twyla let out a cry of anguish and wept for her lost friend, their heads together one last time. There were many arms to offer comfort to Twyla and to me.
There is still anger that washes over me when I think of someone doing this to our sweet Lola or any other creature. But it is soothed by the thought of Lola’s gentle eyes looking at me from far off, telling me there is no room for anger. Only action. She does not suffer anymore and she, even if it was only the last half year of her life, knew love. And now she thunders across an endless mesa with a herd of her ancestors. There are so many more that are still suffering a similar or worse pain. And they will come. And we will be here waiting. It is time to roll up our sleeves and get to work again. Small but mighty voices in the wilderness.
The Will to Go On
By Autumn Domoslai
Where do we get the will to go on? What is it that spurs us to take the next step even though we wince inside thinking this one is going to hurt more than the last one did?
Sometimes I change my mind ten times a day. I look at money, otherwise known as resources. I look at time, otherwise known as my life. I crunch numbers on paper, on the computer, on calculators and in my head and stare in amazement when none of the sums match. I do head counts. Then I examine what is and more importantly what is not in cupboards, feed bins and the bank account. Sometimes I change my mind ten, twenty, a hundred times in a day! I wonder if I am the only one in this “business” that does this.
When my daughter, Twyla, and I began operating Autumn Hollow Sanctuary, offering a rescue home to animals in need, we had no idea what we were signing up for. We belong to an ‘elite’ force that is little understood at best. There are more than a few people who have asked us both how we keep going. I am still trying to come up with a coherent and less than three million word essay on that particular topic.
Rarely does a day go by when frustrations of one sort or another don’t crop up. On some of those days you look to the sky and want to just admit that this is too big for two slightly eccentric gals to move forward with. I’ve gone from being a professional author and artist to having very little time to create anything remotely artistic. (I do use a bit of creative artistry to clean up some pretty impressive and exotic messes.)
Something drives us both. Something always pulls me back to the ones who need us. Usually it is in a graphic and immediate way. Dawson is an African Grey parrot who came to us completely bald except for his lovely head which he cannot reach…thank goodness. Parrots who are abused either verbally or through neglect can and will obsessively pluck themselves until there is nothing left. (If you see a bald parrot in a store and the ‘owner’ tells you it is molting, he/she is lying. You cannot tell by looking if a parrot is molting.) We’ve had them come in after they have literally drilled holes in their own bodies. How do you say no to Dawson’s suffering? I know I can’t.
To Twyla’s disgust we have had to narrow the numbers we are able to take in as well as the species. The reasons for this are simple. Time and money. In her heart, Twyla thinks that everyone should feel the same compassion and love that she does when she looks at the world. It is with resignation that I watch her having to learn what we all do eventually. She reacts with hurt, rage and sorrow when she sees that cruelty wears many faces. A good ole’ boy from down the road can take great pleasure in bloodlust. We see suffering that is perpetuated by passive indifference, greed, narrow-mindedness and just plain laziness. These realities are forced on us, often in the most visceral manner. When a pup we had adopted out to some friends was shot by a neighbour…a good ole’ boy…we were called in as we are close by. Sasha was a daily visitor to our house. She was a smallish, white Amer-Esk terrier cross who loved absolutely everyone. We rushed over as soon as we got the call, dreading that she was already gone. To our horror and dismay, she had been shot in the face as well as the hind end. I knelt down to wrap my arms around her poor blood soaked body. The family was frantically getting the truck ready to take her to the vet…usually a short trip but a dismally long drive on this day. So much blood for one small dog was unbelievable. When you watch those suffering a gunshot wound on t.v., there is a sense of removal. When you hold someone or something who is bleeding to death and suffocating on their own blood in your arms, it is quite different. As Sasha’s young owner cried hysterically and Twyla cussed a blue streak better than any pirate who ever lived, all I could do was hold Sasha and whisper to her that it was okay, that whatever path she needed to take was fine. That she was loved and always would be. She simply laid her head on my shoulder and tried to breathe. We were all covered in blood as she was transported in a makeshift sling to the truck. We watched as the vehicle sped away in the snow. There are no words to describe the rage and helpless feeling. We knew who did it but unfortunately this so-called rancher, who should be a guardian and a keeper, is allowed to shoot anything he wants with no consequence it seems. I have heard many of the same sort of person talk gleefully of how they shoot any dog on sight whether they know the owner or not, whether the dog is friendly or just curious. They just like to kill or maim and it is not limited to dogs. There are problem dogs out there, but there are better ways to deal with this than shooting every dog on sight. I felt anger beyond expression. If it had been expressed it would not have been in a good way. Twyla had to be bodily restrained from going over and shrieking her anger at the shooter. What is worse is the horror of knowing that so many humans are capable of this and worse. They will destroy animals, each other and this beautiful planet with impunity. I wonder will my grandchildren know the joy of running alongside a pet dog who is their best friend, or will circumstances become such that having enough food and water for themselves will be the priority.
Sometimes I feel like I am drowning in a feeling of helplessness. When there is no feed and suddenly, as happened recently, emergency dental surgery to the tune of two thousand dollars is required, it begins to look bleak.
When I woke up that morning with my face in a lot of pain and swollen almost beyond recognition…I look like a muppet…I reminded myself that at least I didn’t get a bullet in the face.
There are so many things that make you wonder why you go forward each day.
Then I sat here thinking of all of our little friends…Lola, Jack-Jack, Lilygoat, Badger and tiny Daisy among many others…who have passed on to the next life. They came here, sometimes in the most horrific state, but they were loved, even if they only lived a few hours. Maybe it was the only love they ever knew, but they knew it in some way. We were able to show them that humans can be kind as well as cruel. Each time one of our rescues leaves, whether to move on to another life in the Otherworld or to join a new family, a small piece of me leaves with them. You would think I would look like a chunk of Swiss cheese by now. Sometimes I feel like it. The holes are eventually filled with light though. It still hurts sometimes when you are left with a feeling of “what more could I have done?”. But those little souls will always be a part of us, and the love that we give them goes out into the world. Each time we do something kind, give up a piece of ourselves so another can feel better, including the Earth, it is like creating a beautiful symphony. Each act of kindness, each time we clean up a mess that is or isn’t ours, it is like a note is added to that piece of music to make it more harmonic. It is a music to sooth all of our hurt and sorrow.
The frustration will never stop. I know this. The scramble to make ends meet, sadly, will go on. I have to try to rebuild my former career so I can save more of those in need. Why? Why put us all through this. Why should we even try to fight this losing battle. Do we have a chance to save this jewel-like planet that we were given as a gift for our children?
What on Earth keeps us going?
Well…Sasha kept going. Hopefully she will have the pins removed from her shattered leg soon. A bullet will remain from a .22 rifle in her snout for the rest of her life. She may never see out of her left eye again. And she will never run and jump so fast or high in joyful abandon as she once did. But she will run and jump in joy after a fashion. We had a hand in that, if only a small one.
And Dawson has some new tail feathers to show off. He greets us with “Hello” every time we come in the room and loves to hurl nutshells at Twyla.
If Dawson and Sasha can keep going, I guess I had better too. I guess we all had better.
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