Each lost pet leaves a scar

Truffula in 2014

By David Horst  sandhill7@gmail.com

Every pet makes a mark on your heart. The death of each leaves a scar.

On another farm, Truffula would have been livestock. At our Sandhilll Llama Farm, they are all pets.

Truffula was our matriarch. She was the top of the pecking order in a small herd that includes her son, Thidwick, and her grandson, Horton. Dr. Seuss fans will recognize a pattern.

She had reason to act superior. She was a Crazy Mountain Man daughter. People who have been involved with llamas since we loaded little Truffula into the back of a pickup truck at an auction two decades ago are impressed right now. Her father was a national rock star among llama studs.

Truffula with baby Thidwick

Actually, she was Tenuta when we put her in the truck. The former owner, Tom Hoffmaster, named llamas born to his very large herd after wine regions of Italy. We changed it to the melodic name of the trees in Seuss' "The Lorax."

She seemed to be comforted by the sound of her name in her final hours.

We were so nervous at the auction as I raised the paddle again and again, increasing our bid. Some of her brothers and sisters sold for five-figure prices. So did her mother, at the same auction. The economics of llama breeding were vastly different then.

We got Truffula for less because she was young and white, a color not in fashion at the time. We had an offer to sell her before we had her in the truck. She had straight lines and perfect banana-shaped ears. We would discover that she also had powerful maternal instincts.

Truffula and grown son Thidwick

Truf was not our first llama, but she was the one that got us interested in breeding. She had only two crias (llama babies), but she was a mom from the day she was first bred. She allowed Thidwick to nurse far longer than she should have. Even after he was a father himself, Thidwick would run to his mommy's side for comfort and protection.

She didn't just mother her crias. Our dog Molly would lean up against the pasture fence so Truffula could lick her face. One of our current barn cats also sat still for Truffula kisses and slept cuddled against her.

On mornings when we took a bit too long to get out to the barn to scoop out their grain, Truffula would appear outside, staring her disapproval into the back windows of the house. She also got an extra scoop in the evening when the other llamas weren't watching. Last winter's arctic blast was tough on her and she never recovered the weight she had lost.

Christmas Eve day I saw Truffula struggle to get her legs under her when she stood up. Three days later, she couldn't stand. The vet treated her for a mineral deficiency that he said would be the cause if we were lucky. After two more days, we found her on her side, breathing shallowly. It took some conversation with ourselves to face the reality. An injection helped her pass quietly.

We don’t know the actual cause of her death. Llamas don't live much beyond the 21 years Truffula achieved. She had a good life, but it still is difficult to lose her.

Our pasture is frozen clay with the return of the winter blast, so burying her would only be possible with heavy equipment. We found a cremation service in Green Bay that can handle an animal as large as llama, for less than the cost of renting a backhoe. We’ll bury her ashes in the pasture in spring.

Maybe I’m anthropomorphizing, but the rest of the herd seems to be in a funk. Someone important to them is missing and they can’t understand why.

For us, the barn seems a little too roomy, and we have another scar.