Only humans are hypocrites

ANIMAL EQUALITY: Why are some more equal than others?

They are very smart, sentient, soul-filled beings like us.  They are peaceful, relaxed, generally happy.  Pigs, dogs, horses, cows, goats, sheep alike.  They are loving, affectionate, communicative, funny.

In fact, most of them seem to be more highly-evolved than we are.  They don’t have to labour for money.  They are not lashed to the wheels of industry or the never-ending demands of consumerism.  They are happy to forage and roam, to spend time together, to scratch each other’s backs and snuggle up together for warmth and love at night.

They know us as individuals.  They have a stronger sense of our souls and purpose than we do.  They are gentle, kind, patient.  They delight in simple pleasures – sunshine after rain, the warming of the world in springtime, their young, food and fresh water.

We have much to learn from them.

And yet we kill and eat them.  And, like us, they don’t want to die.  They know when they are destined for their final journey.  They struggle and weep as we do.  They buck and rail against their inevitable deaths as we do.

Many of us never give a thought to how animals have lived or died.

How many thousands of miles they have been trucked across the country standing cramped cheek by jowl in fear for their futures, not knowing what horrors awaiting them?  Hoping for greener pastures, struggling as they smell the bloodbath at the abattoir and realising their fate.

When terrorists and extremists engage in the mass slaughter of innocents we are horrified and appalled. But isn’t that what we do to animals?  Who gets to judge that they are less than we?

As humans the horrors we perpetuate against animals in the industrial agriculture model are truly awful – chickens in cramped cages for our daily eggs, meat chooks bred for breast and thigh meat who cannot barely walk so out of proportion are their bodies.

Pigs in huge barns on concrete floors unable to root through earth and run as they love to do, and sows in cramped stalls as breeding machines. Male bobby calves shot immediately after birth because there is no value in veal in Australia. Steers on unnatural grain diets for fattening in overcrowded feedlots, causing communicable E-coli in their guts and bodies.

PETA and animal activists are right to draw our attention to these monstrosities and force us to confront the realities of our thirst for flesh.  Although they conveniently ignore the very many farmers raising animals compassionately, humanely, ethically and with love, on grass and pasture – free to forage and roam.

Humans have always eaten meat.  Have always hunted and killed.  Have always supplemented a plant-based diet with the essential protein from flesh.  Some humans seem to survive and thrive on plant-based diets, some need meat.

There is no definitive right and wrong.

And, by God, Mother Nature can be cruel and vicious in how she takes lives both human and animal.  Let’s face it, we are all going to die one day.  Will we have lived a life of service?  Will our bodies be useful to others after we are gone?  At least the animals we eat can say that.

Regardless of whether we choose to eschew flesh or indulge, there is a fundamental truth. We all need to eat far more fruit and vegetables and a lot less meat.

Because that tray of meat is not just fuel for the barbie, it is a life taken before its time.  It is our responsibility to ensure that it was a life well-lived – a life of joy and pleasant pastures, of sun and rain and soil, of freedom and peace.

Every life deserves the same respect.  Animals perhaps more, because they serve and feed us.  If you choose to eat meat, eggs, cheese and wear fleece and skin, please get to know a farmer, make sure the animals you eat and wear have been treated with respect, love and compassion, that they have lived good lives and died quick deaths.

It’s the least we can do.

PETA’s shock and awe anti-wool campaign is offensive to the public and farmers

The latest PETA campaign featuring a fake freshly shorn sheep covered in blood is wrong. And that’s coming from a former vegan.

 

I was a vegan for more than 20 years. I used to think that all human interference with animal life was cruel and contrary to our purpose here on earth. I was convinced I was right about that and my dietary choices demonstrated my higher spiritual evolution. Much of this time I battled with drug, alcohol and nicotine addictions and anorexia and then bulimia, so it wasn’t that my body was a temple, but that every thing on God’s earth deserved the right to live in peace.

My dietary choices were a pain in the proverbial for my family, friends, and stressed waitresses in restaurants in the days before you could chop and change everything on the menu to suit your selfish needs. I didn’t subscribe to any group or read any literature and this was long before Google or information on tap. I made up my own mind based on my beliefs.

And then a naturopath told me my body was starving and I had to eat eggs or sardines. Well there was no way I could eat little fish in cans so I bought chooks, loved them and was grateful for their gorgeous golden eggs every day. A few years later I bought my riverside paradise, met a man (who I converted to vegan), settled down, got married, had a baby. And I wondered, will I know if he needs meat, and if he does, will I cook it for him? I wrestled with that a lot. And then one day, like a bolt from the blue, I looked at my toddler and knew he needed meat. So my journey to source ethically raised and grown meat began. In the end I realised we would have to do it ourselves.
Australian musician Jona Weinhofen in PETA’s controversial anti-wool campaign.

Australian musician Jona Weinhofen in PETA's controversial anti-wool campaign. Photo: PETA

Australian musician Jona Weinhofen in PETA’s controversial anti-wool campaign. Photo: PETA

Australian musician Jona Weinhofen in PETA’s controversial anti-wool campaign. Photo: PETA

Nature is cruel. I have rescued and wept over sheep ripped apart by wild dogs. Chooks taken by foxes and wild boars. Ducks stolen by wild dogs, and hunted by sea eagles. Chicks swallowed whole by pythons. Cattle, alpaca, sheep and piglets felled by paralysis ticks. Alpaca attacked by wild dogs, birth deformities and so on.
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And yes, some farming practices are cruel – ripping calves straight off their mothers to assuage our endless hunger for dairy products. We have rescued many male “bobby” calves to save them being shot but they often just lie down and die. No will to live. They want their mothers and who can blame them?

None of us are perfect. And there are certainly farming methods that can be improved. But ultimately we, as consumers, can demand that change by choosing sustainable produced fruit, vegetables and meat with a transparent supply chain from paddock to plate. Or not. We can continue to expect the duopoly to make ethical choices us for us, believe the sales hype on the packaging, or we can connect with farmers and make sure that what they say is true.

The latest PETA campaign with Aussie born and raised musician Jona Weinhofen carrying a fake freshly shorn sheep covered in blood is offensive to the public and farmers alike. More shock and awe from the vociferous vegans with farmers left reeling in their tracks.

Sheep need to be shorn every year just like we need our hair cut. Without shearing sheep can die of heat, and would struggle to carry the weight of an unshorn fleece. Shearing is essential regardless of whether the wool is used for insulation, carpets, woollen clothes etc. In fact most Aussie wool goes to the UK where everyday people wear wool everyday.

Australians don’t wear wool, they wear mass produced cotton and synthetics from China. It’s all very convenient to express shock at the poor sheep, but not to question the terrifying pollution in China (think of the birds), the chemical run-off into rivers and streams from bleaching, dyeing processes and so on (think of the fish, the frogs, the water birds, the eels, turtles etc). The chemicals needed to turn petrochemicals into clothes, let alone the pesticides used in the growing of cotton. Give me a nice woollen jumper any day!

Australia grew on the sheep’s back and now we scorn those animals and the shearers who were our lifeblood. Yes, there are some pricks in the industry. Show me an industry that doesn’t have a few cruel, heartless people.

Sometimes sheep do get a few nicks while shearing. So do some men while shaving their faces. It’s nothing to bleat over. And certainly not the bloodbath PETA would have us believe.

If PETA and the rabid vegans of the world want to change the eating and wearing habits of the masses they need to stick to the truth, examine their own hypocrisies, and have an open and honest debate and discussion about animal welfare and where food comes from.

They need to acknowledge there is no perfect way to be human on this planet without harming animals. Everything we eat, everything we buy, everything we use has involved some process which harms the environment and therefore harms animals – all the chemicals and plastics and dioxins and pesticides and fossil fuels that are used every day in order to give us the plastic packaging, smartphones, computers, synthetic fleece and plastic shoes mass produced in sweatshops by small children.

Vegans profess kindness to animals, but my God they can be cruel to their fellow humans if they don’t agree with their lifestyle choices. Humans are animals too!

And there is a conscious way to eat meat, which I have reluctantly realised is good for the human body. I’m older now, hopefully wiser, and more aware and honest about what my body needs to be healthy – that includes some meat. We can all eat meat more consciously – buy direct from the farmer, share a beast with friends – fill the freezer and then eat sparingly and with due reverence for the life that has been given. Wear wool with pride and joy – not only is it better for our bodies to wear natural fibres that can breathe easily, but the planet can breathe better without all those chemical concoctions used for man made fibre.

For the record, bees are happy to have honey harvested when the hives are overflowing. We always leave plenty for them to survive and thrive. Nothing could be more natural than wearing and weaving wool, hemp and flax, eating eggs and honey to supplement the fruit and veg we grow, and occasionally killing a beast and feasting, storing all the rest in the freezer. One steer will feed our family beef for two years. This is how humans have always eaten – with respect and love for nature, with honour for all life, with gratitude for nature’s abundance, using the whole beast, skin and all for leather.

I used to be a vegan. But I’m all right now.

 

The food journey begins . . .

So when the little one’s soul was screaming for meat, I had to go shopping. And discovered that buying good quality, organic, free range meat is not possible in either of the Duopoly’s chains. Strike One!

Then I hunted out butchers. In the UK these are normally jovial chaps with a real passion for quality meat and making sausages etc. They are artisans, artists of meat. But in Oz I found they were often rude and told outright lies in order to get me to buy their products. Strike Two!

Finally I found a butcher with integrity, who laughed when I told him it was the first time in a butcher’s shop for over 20 years and that I was a vegetarian. The expressions on my face must have been priceless at times as I looked at his wares and listened to his spiel. It was great to find good organic free range chicken, albeit very yellow and skinny so corn fed and maybe marathon runners?

And sourcing goat from him was wonderful. The energy of goat is very clean and pure, nurturing and rich. I never had a problem working with it in the kitchen while other meats made me gag. And goat stew in Autumn and winter is just so wonderful, rich, flavoursome and full of goodness.

It was hard at first, to handle and cook dead animals. But most Mothers will do anything for their children, and despite my ingrained belief at the time that I was a bad Mother, my willingness to forsake all my beliefs for my son speaks to the contrary!

And the more my son ate, as he transitioned from milk and purees, the more interested and involved I became in food – where it came from, what was in it, who grew it and with what energy, intention and chemicals involved.

We ate better as a result. Our diets became more varied, diverse and rich. I learned to bake (and let me tell you I was the worst – I have burned more cakes than you have ever eaten!) and good food became a passion. I always say our children come to heal us and Ben healed my food issues and opened me up to just how nurturing and delightful food can be.

I sourced the best, in bulk – stocked up the pantry and freezers with home cooked and home grown produce with all the goodness intact. As friends and woofers came to stay they praised my food and started dialogues and journeys of consciousness around food that sparked the idea of sharing good food on a wider basis . . . one day . . .

Buying a Farm . . . The ultimate Tree Change . . .

When I was in the process of buying the farm in 2007 it was with no other thought than to have room to breathe, to run, to ride our horses, to watch and wonder at the star and sky scapes.

‘You do know the river floods?’ was the first question old George asked me when we spoke to him about doing some tractor work and cleaning up almost a decade of neglect. ‘Of course,’ I retorted, thinking ‘does he think I’m an idiot . . .?’

Little did I guess that my plan to be alone and write was to be swiftly shattered – by love. The best laid plans and all that . . .

Ged came to assess the solar and something happened to our souls. Destiny struck and our lives were inextricably intertwined.

How little we knew . . . about the rapidly rising floodwaters that could cut us off for ten days; about the tractor hours needed to slash all the weeds; about the animals we would love and lose; about the wild dogs howling from the hilltops and hounding our beloved sheep and ducks.

About the beautiful boy who was soon to bless our lives and how that would change everything . . .

I had been a vegan for over 20 years. I soon had Ged eating that way too and he lost a heap of weight and was healthier as a result. We set up a wonderful veggie garden and as far as possible ate home grown. I wondered whether I would know or be able to acknowledge if my son was a carnivore. Would I raise him as a vegetarian or would I listen to his soul needs?

One day I was in the kitchen and he was sitting in his baby chair eating and I knew, with a sudden bolt of consciousness, that he was a carnivore to his bones. That meant we had to either buy or grow meat. And a whole different journey began . . .

Those little bodies – so precious, so pure. Most parents want to protect that purity, to feed and nurture their children with the most wholesome, natural food they can get. We were no different. We just had a bit more room . . .

Vale Ping, beautiful friend

Soon after we got here, almost 8 years ago, we got our first ducks.  Just some little ducklings from the rural store.  Of course we knew nothing about ducks and some of them drowned in the washing up bowl of water we had given them to swim in.  Two survived.  They were Muscovies and as they grew with their red beaks and crowns we decided we wanted prettier ducks so we went online and bought Peking ducklings.  Little bundles of yellow which Phoenix happily herded around the yard in awe and wonder.

One was called Ping after the little yellow duck on the Yangtze River in the story of the same name that I loved and treasured as a child.  Ping & Pong were the favourites of 6. They grew into gorgeous glowing white bundles of feather with glossy golden beaks.  Waddling from the house paddock to the river where they bathed, primped and preened before gliding over the river below us.  They huddled down at night in front of the tie rail and it was from there over a serious of nights that 4 were taken by a wild dog creeping right into the house paddock night after night.  Such brazen thievery deserved the death penalty which Ged duly delivered when he was home.  We do not tolerate predators who treat us and our animals as an all you can eat buffet.

And then there were two.  Ping and Pong remained.  We were given an Indian Runner x Peking and the girls had a boyfriend.  A happy trio.  Always a joy to see on land or water and very noisy at feeding time when they waddled to the feed shed and demanded to be fed.  Not long after Brave (Ged’s horse) came to live with us we found Ping in a terrible state with a broken leg and broken wing.  We can only conjecture what happened but my feeling is that Brave, young, cheeky and a bit wild and excitable probably kicked her.

Sometimes we have to make cost-efficiency calls about sick animals.  We were unlikely to take Ping to the vet.  So we amputated half the wing (secateurs) and splinted the leg with paddle pop (lolly) sticks.  We dosed her up with antibiotics (wing was infected) and Flower Remedies and Homeopathics, our go to staples for physical, psychological and all other ailments.  We kept her on the verandah for about 10 days, every morning expecting her to have died overnight, every night exhorting her to live.

It was a miracle that she recovered.  But she did.  And she has lived a lovely happy life.  Only stressed by the visitations of the sea eagles which have shown me what duck diving really is!  But she has slowed down a lot over the last year.  Presumably with arthritis in that broken leg which never set completely straight having broken right above the knee joint.  Ged and I have watched her and known that at some time we were going to have to do the right thing by her and end her life.  But who wants to end the life of such a true and trusted friend who has delighted us so much over so many years?  Not I.  Not Ged.

But that decision has thankfully been taken from us.  She is gone.  Ben woke us up yelling at us one morning ‘the sea eagle, the sea eagle’.  And since then we have not seen Ping.  Ben has said he saw the sea eagle low and carrying something white.  Whether that is true or not we will never know.  But we know that Ping is gone.  Vale, friend, thank you for all the joy you gave us.  I hope the end was quick.  We will never forget you, always remember you with great love.

 

We’re not in Kansas any more, Toto . . .

We went to Ged’s parents for Christmas Day.  I wanted to leave at tea time but Ged was revelling in the bosom of his blood family and we we ended up staying after supper.  There were storms brewing all day but only a smattering of rain in Beechwood.  It was hot and humid.  The lunch was lovely and we were all relaxed and chatty.

It rained on the way home and the dirt roads were damp, but when we got further down Tilbaroo we realised from the muddy puddles on the road and the depth of scrubby creek that there had been a significant rain event.  We drove through the river and up the bank towards the house.  The trampoline was bent in half and down near the river’s edge.  Its green and black spring cover was draped over the swings by the flying fox.  I opened the gate & the ground was spongy.  I realised that half of one of the crepe myrtles was felled in front of Ben’s cubby.  As I closed the gate I looked down the river flat and realised that the new timber caravan we have made as wwoof accommodation was no longer up on blocks.  I walked down there in my strappy sandals and long summer dress.  It had moved over 15 feet.  What the hell had happened here?

Ged got Ben into bed and back to sleep (he had woken up when he heard us exclaiming about his trampoline) and then we headed off to check on everything.  ‘We’d better take the chainsaw’ I told Ged.  ‘Let’s just see what’s what’ he replied.  We took hay down to the stallion, Sandy.  The alpacas were completely freaked out and watching something warily.  We couldn’t see anything.  Sandy was drenched and lame on one hind.

Then we started over the hill to the other side of the farm.  We didn’t get far before realising the road was impassable.  I reversed down and turned around and we went back for the chainsaw.  And then we spent two hours, in the dark and drizzle, cutting up and humping not one, but 5 trees progressively blocking our path.  Just by the car headlights.  Finally we got through at about 10.30pm and made it through the tree debris and mud to the other side.  Every track was littered with branches and the short track to the Point Paddock was completely blocked with a big tree.  More reversing.  Then we got to the bees.

Or what was left of them.  Or what we could see of them.  We had to come back and put on our bee suits before going back to even begin to sort them out.  It was an unbelievable mess.  Massive, healthy trees ripped apart and dumped on top of the bees.  Hives smashed, bees everywhere, branches on top of hives and branches blocking bee entries.  They were stressed.  I spoke gently to them as I moved branches ‘it’s all right, darlings, we’re trying to help . . . ‘  I really didn’t want to get stung.

We cleared around the hives that were still standing and worked our way over to the main mess.  A huge tree had fallen on three hives.  They were smashed to pieces.  Bees were swarming.  Ged said we had to come home and knock together the few new boxes he had (unpainted) and try and rescue the bottom boards and lids from the smashed hives to see if he could rescue the hives.  It was just devastating.  Brand new hives, newly painted, newly populated with nuts, and all going so well.  It was so bizarre. Big, healthy trees wrenched off at half mast.

We were covered in bees and trying to brush them gently away before getting in the car.  I got a few stings through my jeans and then a big one in my hand when I took my gloves off in the car.  We stopped the car a few times on the way home to shed more bees and kept picking them off the dash and mirror and putting them out of the windows.  I got a bit neurotic and stripped off my bee suit, convinced there was one in there. Having been stung on the crown of my head two days before, I didn’t want another!  They really hurt!

We came home and I cleaned the house while Ged banged in the shed.  He went backwards and forwards many times that night trying to save all he could of our precious bees and hives.  I cleaned and cooked until 3 and then had a bath and went to bed to read.  I was wired, I needed to chill out.  He came in, showered and crashed after 4.  So much for our nice relaxing Christmas night watching Downton . . .

I woke up at 6 and Ben was up soon after.  He and I had a quiet breakfast together and let Ged sleep.  And then we had to get started.  We had guests coming to The Tree House so I got on with the cleaning, while Ged rang his parents to tell of the devastation and his Dad offered to come and help.  In the daylight it was worse.  We could see the full scale of the devastation.  Huge beautiful trees uprooted or twisted off at half mast.  Healthy trees.  Strong trees.  Limbs wrenched from trunks.  Smashed branches everywhere.  Every track, every paddock, littered with debris.  We’d just been admiring how good it all looked before Christmas . . . pride before a fall and all that . . .

The cleanup will take a year.  On the bright side, Ged reckons we will get some good fence posts out of the fallen trees.  Team McCarthy came for a full morning or chainsawing and helping with all the mess.  We are so grateful for that.  We got the major farm roads cleared.  Still plenty to do.  In the daylight all agreed that we had been hit by a ‘twister’ or tornado.  Every other farm fine.  As I said to Ged, now I know what ‘An Act of God’ is . . .

As always we have plenty to do without cleaning up after Mother Nature’s wilful, savage, act of destructive fury.  I wish she’d had her temper tantrum somewhere else.  Oh well, we weren’t here to see it and Phoenix didn’t run away and the rest is all just time and money . . .

It just goes to show that we can’t leave the farm even for a day . . . and there’s no such thing as a day off for a farmer . . .

When fear is a missing friend . . .

Ged left the farm at about 3pm to meet Ben on 10th December and I for Ben’s final preschool presentation.  All was well.  Phoenix had been in the office with him and following him around all day – situation absolutely normal.  After the event, we went into town for supper and then I stayed to do the shopping.  Ben and Ged were home by about 7 – no Phee.  So after getting Ben to sleep Ged went out calling and searching, but didn’t tell me he was gone.  I didn’t get home til 9, exhausted, and was then told that Phoenix wasn’t home.  I was pretty hysterical.  Didn’t sleep a wink.  Terrified that I was never going to see his sweet face, brown eyes and waggling tail again.  He’s getting old, my friend.  All of a sudden.  Lame and slower.  Time has suddenly stolen his essential puppy-ness.

They say that about spaniels.  They say that they are eternally young until just before the end.  I don’t want to lose Phoenix.  I don’t want him to ever leave me.  Especially not so soon after Baby – I can’t bear the thought of another two years of grief.  I have been worrying about him going and realising that our time together is limited.  But not so soon, please.

At first light we were up and searching.  Nothing.  We hit the phones and rang all the neighbours.  When he was much younger he would occasionally go walkabout – but not for more than 5 years.  I went driving – it was a foul day, chucking it down.  I saw George and told him and he gave me phone numbers of other occasional neighbours to call. Eventually we all had to get on with our day.  I had to clean The Tree House for the visitors arriving later.  Ged took Ben to preschool & went off to work.  Phoenix didn’t have a collar or a tag on.  His collar had just broken & a new one on the shopping list.

I was scrubbing & polishing when Ged rang and said that our lovely neighbour Pat had just rung him to say Phee had been spotted – over 5 klms away and heading for the highway.  I got in the car and drove through the river and cross country over her land.  She met me at the house gate and told me that the fencers had come in and seen him on Wallis Road, heading out to the highway – looking exhausted, apparently.  A big storm was hot on my heels and Phee hates thunder and lightning now he is old.  Apparently all dogs do.

So I drove as if the hounds of hell themselves were yapping at my tailgate.  Trying to get to him before the storm made visibility impossible.  Thunder was rumbling and booming.  Lightning streaking the sky. My poor boy was out there somewhere, terrified.  Pat said that her neighbour, Barb, had heard a dog barking outside her house all night – it must have been Phee.  She had rung Pat to ask if it was one of hers.  If only we had rung her the night before.

Oh well . . . hindsight is a wonderful thing.  And wouldn’t find my friend.  I drove all the way out to the highway.  There was a tree down across the road – I just drove over it such was my haste to find him before he got run over on the busy Oxley Highway.  He wasn’t there.

I turned round and retraced my route.  Stopping at the few isolated farms to ask if they had seen a small black spaniel with a white front.  No sign.  I drove slowly on the return trip, scanning the surrounding countryside.  The rain was lashing the windscreen.  I met the fencers as they drove back home ‘any sign?’ I asked them.  ‘Nothing’ they said.  They had chopped up and moved the fallen tree.  I was despairing.  And then there he was on the road in front of me.  Wild eyed, soaked, bedraggled.  Thank God.

I grabbed the rug from out of the boot and wrapped him up in it, sitting him on the passenger seat and hugging him over and over again.  He was wet to the bone, violently shivering, and he barely recognised me, such was his terror.  My poor, beautiful boy.

We got back to Pat’s and told her the glad tidings.  And then I took him home before yet another storm hit.  Dosed him up with Emergency Essence and Arnica for his poor tired muscles and bones.  He must have run over 20 kilometres.  But why?

When he was safely home and in recovery there was the time and space to ask that question.  Ged spoke to Pat and asked whether there had been a big storm after he left that day.  Sure enough, she said there had been.  He must have been scared and just started running.  Why he ran that way and not home we will never know.  He must have become disoriented and just kept running.  Maybe he thought Barb’s house was our house and that’s why he barked all night.  Why didn’t he stop at Pat’s house?  She would have recognised him . . .

What a wake up call.  That every moment is precious with my dearest friend.  That we can’t take our time together for granted.  That one day, inevitably, everyone we love has to leave us.  That I have to make time, carve time, to spend just being with the ones I love.  There’s no point taking them for granted and then mourning them when they are gone.  Take the time to love them when they are here on planet earth.  Take time to PLAY, to connect, to have fun, to stop treating them all like annoyances.  So what if Phee traipses mud all over the floor – he’s here with his loving energy, his unconditional love for me whatever I do or say.  The last words I spoke to him before he ran away the following day were to yell at him for making a mess.  That’ll learn me – or will it?

 

The politics & ethics of live export

Read this article on online opinion >>

We can be proud that Australians are so horrified by further revelations of horrific cruelty to our live exports. It shows us as the compassionate, caring people we are. And we must applaud the work of the animal activists who have exposed these horrors. But the Live Export issue is a political hot potato and we must tread with caution, especially in an ISIL era of heightened fear and suspicion of Islamic practices and ideals. The Live export trade is a necessary and lucrative business for Australian farmers and Government and also a mainstay of political goodwill between our nation and others. In 2009 the Live export industry earned $996.5 million and provided employment for approximately 10,000 people in rural Australia. Improving outcomes for our animals means addressing cultural differences in a diplomatic manner or insisting on humane slaughter here in Australia. But the reality is that there are many nations and people who will not accept that. This is a long game which will take years to resolve satisfactorily. Despite the hysteria it is not practical or appropriate to stop something so big overnight. If we ban live exports, those countries currently importing our livestock will simply source elsewhere or grow their own. We are actually better placed to improve animal welfare by continuing the trade and working closely with the supply chain, tightening loopholes and insisting on the highest standards and treatment at every step. We can work with recipient countries’ governments to change attitudes and treatment of animals at purchase and slaughter. We can’t do that if we walk away. Advertisement Farmers tend to duck at times like this. Frightened of the fracas and the cruel words sprayed around like shotgun fire by people with little understanding of the realities of animal production for human consumption. Most animal activists tend to be vegetarian or vegan which obviously kew their understanding of animals as a protein source for the majority of mankind. However, their work in exposing atrocities to our animals awakens Australian carnivores’ compassion in a huge hue and cry on Social and Mainstream Media. What I find so interesting is that those same people are not more interested in where their meat comes from within Australia. How Australian animals are treated, trucked and killed. There is plenty of shock value in the images from overseas but day after day Australian animals are trucked huge distances without feed or water to saleyards or abattoirs or new owners. Australian abattoirs are ever fewer and further between and on farm slaughter banned except for own consumption, so travel stress is a given in every animal’s life. Yes, our slaughter practices are among the best in the world, but you only have to take your animals to the abattoir once to understand that mass management of animals in high stress life and death situations is never going to be pretty. Animals are very smart – they know exactly what is going on, and like humans facing death they struggle and try to run from their ultimate reality. Australians need to be far more cognizant of the fact that animals die in their hundreds of thousands every day here in Australia in order to support the Aussie obsession with meat and lots of it. And what of the lives led by these animals before they die? Chickens raised in huge sheds sickening with the acrid stench of faeces, too big to stand on their own legs, genetically modified to grow to kill weight in a mere 5-7 weeks, as opposed to what is natural – 14-20 weeks. These chickens are sick and stressed and Australians eat them in their millions – 400 million are raised and killed in Australia each year. But where is the angst about that? Is it ok to be cruel to chickens, but not beef or sheep? Is it OK for Aussies to torture their own animals, but not our trading partners? Advertisement What of egg production? Aussies love their super cheap eggs and believe all the spin and pretty pictures on the boxes. But the reality is far from the claims and images at the supermarket fridges – huge stinking sheds of tortured chooks leading miserable lives of imprisonment to provide those eggs. And what of the pigs raised on concrete floors in huge barns, only seeing the light of day for the first time when loaded for the long trip to the slaughterhouse. Pigs and chooks should be free to roam and forage. Where is the outrage and uproar about that? Hypocrisy is inherent in the human condition. Never more so when it comes to live animals and their welfare and the demand for cheap meat at the supermarket. Before we criticise other religions and races for their handling of our animals, we need to carefully examine our consciences and own backyards. Let every person who feels outrage at the treatment of Australian animals overseas carefully examine their own conscience and where their meat comes from – how and where it is raised and slaughtered and turned into food. Yes, Australians need to have a conversation about animal welfare. Let’s start with our own backyard first.

Life Lesson

It’s been almost two years since my beloved horse, Baby, was released from her pain by Ged and his gun.  Almost two years of grieving.  Brought to my knees by the physical pain of loss, feeling like my heart has been torn in two, flung to the ground by tsunamis of tears and aching, shaking misery at never touching or holding or seeing her again.

I have knelt on my yoga mat with her halter clutched to my chest and wept oceans of tears for my friend, my mother, my comforter, my saviour, my rock.  She was all those things to me.  Just to walk alongside her with her lead rope in my hand, chatting or silent, brought me incalculable happiness.  I didn’t spend enough time with her.  I didn’t make time to spend with her.  I was too busy with renovating the house, falling in love, all the work involved in getting married on the farm, improving the farm, looking after all the other animals, having a baby, being tied to the house and Ben . . .

Poor Baby didn’t get a look in.  And yet when I did make time to take her swimming or stand in the river and wash her down, or give her a bath with shampoo and conditioner, I was filled with a simple happiness and joy.  Feelings that were so rare in all my post natal and menopausal depression.  Why didn’t I realise that I could create feelings of peace, contentment and light-heartedness simply by being with her, feeling her immense solidity and roundedness.  She was an anchor for me for 12 years, tethering me to the planet when my depression and despair urged me to leave it.

Whenever I drove or walked past her I would whistle and she would lift her head and whiffle at me.  So much said in that sound.  ‘Hi. I miss you.  I love you.  I see you.’ So much connection in that simple exchange of love.  Yet she wasn’t a great cuddler.  Normally walked away from me and was hard to catch.  Loved to turn her ass on me and have her put scratched while she swayed against my hands and body, loving the satisfaction of a human scratching post.  She would never let me kiss her soft sweet muzzle.  I would kiss her eyelids and stand forehead to forehead with her.  And I loved to fondle her hairy tipped ears.  I knew every inch of her so well, I can still visualise her beautiful hooves, knees, legs (she had great legs!) soft, warm, rounded coat and body.  The strands of silver in her mane at the wither, the thick tangles in her tail to be combed out with patience and great love.  The wild little plaits in her mane that she and nature created that I would tease out, loving standing with her – another opportunity to just BE with her, forgetting all the ‘to do’ lists for once.

I have been a slave to those lists for so long.  As if achievement brings happiness, when all it does is bring the next ‘to do’ closer.  I haven’t stopped to smell the roses or take time to rest or play for years.  Those are things she has taught me in her passing.  I guess she had to leave to teach me that.  Now I take time for Second Chance who really is Baby come back to me.  She loves to stand and smooch with me and loves me to kiss her muzzle and stand nose to nose, breath to breath, just being, breathing, communing.  As with Baby we stand third eye to third eye, sharing spiritual space.  Chancy lets me drip tears and snot on her as I still weep for Baby and in gratitude that she came back to me in this new form.  This new bay with her pretty, dainty, feet and floating movement.

I have learned so much from Baby and her passing and I have changed.  I have slowed down, become much less impatient, more willing to stop and spend time, more understanding that the lists are endless and always will be and we can only do one thing at a time, and do it well.  And that taking time to play and be with the ones we love is not wasted time, but the most precious time of all.  That is not DOING but BEING that we will be remembered for.

Yes, I want to make my mark on the world, but I have realised that if I can love and be loved, if I can shape and grow a healthy, happy, engaged and engaging child with a conscience.  If I can act with integrity, follow my heart and dreams as well as crossing things off the list, I will be happier and mentally healthier, as well as improving the lives around me.  In fact, by slowing down, breathing and be more present, I and everyone around me are happier.

I am so much happier recently.  I have never known such peace, happiness and contentment.  I have rediscovered music, singing and dancing. I have had time to be outside engaging in hard physical labour and am loving the peace of mind and stillness that brings.  I am more relaxed, less tense, and more aware of what makes me tense and beginning to love myself enough to avoid those things and situations (self sabotage is still pretty strong in me though!).  I am growing older and growing up.

And as I pondered my new-found happiness the other day as I talked to Baby, sitting on the beautiful cedar block Ged carved to mark her resting place, I realised that maybe the ultimate gift she gave me was in her passing.

She gave me the gift of grief.  An opportunity to clear out a lifetime’s pain and sorrow by howling out my pain and heartbreak.  Grief brings all loss to the surface.  It allows us the opportunity to spring clean our damaged souls.  All the heartache and heartbreak I have sobbed for has cleaned me out, cleared out the backlog, detritus and junk creating that eternal melancholy in my mind.  Now I can be happy.

The ultimate gift, the ultimate sacrifice, by she who knew me better than anyone, who came to save and ground me, without whom I never would have found this farm and land which soothes and heals me as well as provides the home I have looked for all my life.  She, who I have known in so many lifetimes, left me in order to heal me.  Thank you, Baby, I will never forget you, will always miss you and will always be grateful for the many and myriad lessons you have taught me – both in life and in death.

The Magic & Beauty of the Australian Bush

Ged always says I drive around with my eyes closed!  I say that of him too.  It does seem that we all have selective vision as we traverse through our lives.  I have been in love with the Australian Bush Flower Essences as healing remedies for years – magic in a bottle that have helped me let go of my past and move through my rage and grief to become happier, calmer, wiser.

Last year at this time when I was walking in Kendall State Forest, still sobbing about the loss of my beautiful Baby, there were thousands of delicate purple flowers scattered through the bush.  Purple was baby’s colour.  Everything she owned was purple – her head collar, leg bandages etc.  So these flimsy flowers on their strong green stalks seemed like messages from her from beyond the grave and I sobbed all the harder.

Still crying one year on.  Not so much, not every day, but still sometimes at a loss to deal with the loss.  And suddenly there were those flowers again.  I stopped and looked closely at them and all the other delicate tiny flowers blooming in the bush.  Each so small and perfect.  Tea tree with their five round white petals, like perfect rounded stars which remind me of the wonder and attention to detail after 10 days vipassana meditation in the Blue Mountains.  Little purple orchids on tiny climbing vines.  The golden yellow of gorse which I thought was a uniquely English bush.  The delicate tendrils of Eucalypt flowers with their wonderful sweet smell and caressing quality.  I made a collection and once more stooped to examine that papery purple flower.  Like a lightbulb in my head I realised that it was Bush Iris.  Familiar name, but what is it for?   I picked one and stroked my face with it as I grieved for Baby and realised that death is an intrinsic part of life.  In winter all is dead and dormant.  The land sleeps, the life forces stilled, nothing grows or flowers.  Yet in the spring time all is new and fresh and vibrant.  Singing and springing of resurgence and new life.  All is reborn.  So too is Baby as my beautiful Second Chance.  Nothing really dies. All is recycled, all is reborn.

I got back to the car and opened up the computer to check on the ausflowers website what the healing properties of Bush Iris are.  ‘The realisation that death is just a state of transition.  Opening of the root chakra and trust centres.’  All the things I have been meditating on recently and realising I needed to shift.  Funny that.

And then after taking the poor ailing child to the doctor who confirmed an ear infection and prescribed antibiotics, I spotted thousands of gorgeous flannel flowers on the sandy side of the road and stopped to harvest them in the hope of replanting them where I can see and adore their velvety smiles.  They bring me great joy and awaken the childish innocence I lost so long ago.

Suddenly my eyes and heart are open to the bush flowers all around me.  I can make my own!  Instead of being dependent on others for my healing I can seek to communicate and commune with nature on my own terms, make my own remedies, allow them to speak to and heal my heart and soul.

I have been an apprentice for too long.  It is time to become the master of my own healing and soul journey.  To step up to my magnificence and soul path.  To own myself.  To embrace myself.  To be myself in all my glory.