Animal Guardians and the Art of Compassion

Day 35– 10:42 PM (Guest Quarters)

Ever since Chang-Sun mentioned that there was a bona fide farm animal sanctuary here on the island, I was really intrigued to see what it was like. I’ve become quite familiar with the concept, having spent a lot of time volunteering at a sanctuary near LA. And, I’ve developed a pretty good understanding of the resident critters, the people who work there, and the myriad of issues associated with operating such a place.

But here in Zentauria, amidst a society that already gets it…how does it work? How might the enlightened public interact with these animals, and regard such a place? Is there an educational element to the sanctuary where kids are concerned? I was curious to know.

Shazza-Quo, which means “animal nirvana” in Zentaurian, is the name of this 49-acre paradise in the West Village. Spectacle had other business near the farm this morning, so he offered to give me a lift out there in his 1972 hydro-powered Malibu.

As he dropped me off by the front gate, it looked like one of my questions would already be answered. There was an orange and brown caterpillar-themed minibus parked in the front. I recognized this as one of the grade school buses. Perhaps there was a small field trip going on around here this morning.

“Say hello to Moo Moo and the gang for me,” Spectacle said, as he was about to pull away. “Especially Barry.”

“Who’s Barry?” I asked.

“Oh, you’ll see soon enough.”

He drove off and I took a wide-angle look at this old school farm. It was a vibrant expanse of low rolling hills, with thick trees staggered throughout open green pastures. I saw one small brick temple near the front of the property, and several more structures off in the distance, but was unable to discern which were barns and which were living quarters. There were a few Holstein steers nearby, munching on grass as their Oreo coats shined in the mid-morning sun. And I noticed a small group of caramel goats further down to the left, all huddled over a trough of alfalfa. Just as I stepped through the gate, an electric purple dune buggy came rolling up on me, fast and quiet. This had to be Moo Moo.

As legend had it, the Rubarian family has traditionally been Zentauria’s premier animal guardians for several centuries. They were highly revered throughout the community for their work in ensuring that all native animals were well taken care of, and for their efforts in rescuing any animal from the region, as needed, 24/7. Through the years, the Rubarians established several preserves around the island so native animals like monkeys, elephants, giraffes and zebras would have a place to comfortably live out their days after rescue. But over the last 50 years, their focus here at Shazza-Quo has become farm animals; cows, pigs, chickens, turkeys and especially sheep and goats, as these are among the most exploited in Africa. They also have designated areas for domestic animals like cats, dogs and rabbits.

Moo Moo Rubarian managed the farm and was the person you thought of first when you thought of Shazza-Quo. At only 40, she had already stockpiled nearly four decades of hands-on experience to this cause, having earned the nickname “Moo Moo” for her dedication to a trio of orphaned calves when she was just four-years old. Apparently, her mother discovered that she had been sleeping in the barn with the calves every night because she didn’t want them to feel alone.

Moo Moo pulled up and said, “Bobby Rock! Welcome to Shazza-Quo. All of the animals have been waiting to meet you this morning.”

“And I’ve been waiting to meet them, as well,” I said, as I stepped toward the buggy.

Moo Moo looked to be an exotic blend of Persian and Spanish, with wild black hair and a beautiful face that was at once innocent and seductive. She was wearing old mismatched workout clothes with weathered brown boots, and had a sleek, feminine muscularity about her. She also had a collection of cuts, bruises and scratches on her hands and arms, telltale signs of a seasoned animal rescuer. But her smile and laugh were infectious, and her demeanor was that of a kid who never grew up.

As I was just about to step into the buggy, I saw that Moo Moo wasn’t alone. Sitting right next to her in a special car seat was a big orange house cat, with soft, golden eyes and the regal face of a pharaoh. He seemed completely unfazed to be zipping around the farm in a dune buggy, and looked at me with the lucidity of a monk. This was no ordinary cat.

“This is Barry. He’s 27 years old and the love of my life!” Moo Moo said laughing.

“Ah, yes,” I said. “I’ve heard of Barry. Spectacle told me to say hello to him.”

“Everybody knows Barry.”

“And did you say he’s 27? Holy shit!”

“Yes. And he’s going to live forever…at least that’s what I tell myself everyday,” she said, cracking herself up again.

I jumped in the passenger seat, gave Barry a few scratches on his head, then we were off on a tour of the farm.

For the most part, Shazza-Quo could’ve been a transplanted slice of Heartland Americana, as they had gone to great effort to replicate the classic farm model. There was plenty of grazing area for the cows and goats, a handful of red cedar barns, several large dirt areas for the chickens and a few mud ponds for the pigs. As we drove around, Moo Moo would stop and personally introduce me to each of the animals we encountered: Cows named Amber, Toby, Georgio, Lucy, Walfredo, and Ming. Goats named Marcellus, Franz, Olivia, Ellie May, Bernice and Lola; Chickens and Turkeys with names like Connor, Qui, Nathaniel-Son, Jamshid, Leonardo and Lily. Notice a theme? There was none of this “Cuddles,” “Fluffy,” or “Shnookums” nonsense around here. Every single animal I met had a human name. The only possible exception was a thousand-pound pig they called T-Rex. But Moo Moo swore the “T” stood for Theodore. (Ironically, it would be all the humans here at the farm who had quirky names.)

Speaking of T-Rex, we pulled up to a barn where he and several other pigs were lounging around and, sure enough, this is where we found a dozen sixth graders on a field trip. They were standing inside this spacious structure with their teacher and Yazzy, one of Moo Moo’s younger sisters, a dedicated farm hand and tour guide. We both walked in with Barry and the three of us were introduced to the kids. But Moo Moo needed no introduction; they already knew all about Zentauria’s most beloved “animal woman.”

When a youngster asked why T-Rex was three times bigger than the other pigs, Moo Moo explained that it was because he had been born into the factory farm system, where genetic manipulation and selective breeding had become an ongoing part of modern animal agriculture. She also talked candidly about ear notching, tail docking, and several other inhumane practices that T-Rex had endured as part of standard industry protocol.

Moo Moo squatted down so she could hug him and was barely able to get both of her arms around his massive neck. She said, “You’re one of the lucky ones, aren’t you Theodore?” and kissed him on his forehead a few times. Then Barry walked over and gave T-Rex a head-butt, as the kids held their collective breath out of concern. But Moo Moo just laughed and assured us that these two were long-time pals.

She then went on to talk about the rest of the Shazza-Quo critters and how every single one of them had their own story, family background and history, just like all of us humans. Moo Moo told us that most of their current 228 animal residents have came primarily from different parts of mainland Africa, almost always in conjunction with the local authorities or the rare private rescue group. Many of them had either been injured or abandoned by a farmer somewhere, found roaming around, or covertly removed from a horrendous living environment. And whether there was just no other place to take the animal, or a rescuer didn’t want them to be recovered by his or her abusive guardian, Shazza-Quo would become the animal’s ultimate safe haven for life.

When one of the students asked how the animals actually got to the island, Moo Moo explained that, while transportation was officially available via the main ferry several times per week, there were a number of times when an animal would simply be tied-up near the dock…a not-so-subtle hint that someone was entrusting the animal’s life to the next Zentaurian who happened to be taking the ferry across to the island. This happened a lot with dogs, in particular.

The kids were all visibly moved by what they were learning today, and they listened and observed with a sense of empathy and compassion that belied their age. They would approach each animal quietly and cautiously, stroking them gently, like one would touch a kitten or an infant human. They were even tip-toeing around T-Rex, but not out of fear. They were just genuinely being respectful of his space. It was remarkable.

After we said goodbye to everyone, Moo Moo announced that I would be joining her and her family for lunch. So we jumped back in the buggy and started cruising through more classic farm scenery. We circled around a small group of Jersey cows, with three big mommas sitting under a papaya tree watching their young calves play like puppies. We saw a gang of five adult goats with long white beards, cautiously checking us out as they stood like statues…except for their incessant chewing of the cud. Then we eased on by a muddy foursome of pigs, rooting around near a shallow creek. Again, we could’ve been in Iowa.

The only things atypical around the farm were some of the structures. There were three Shaolin temples, which had been left intact from their original design several hundred years prior. Two were used as living quarters for various animal guardians and one was a state-of-the-art veterinary clinic. Then there was Moo Moo’s house, which was a white stone, 19-bedroom monastery-turned-mansion. It looked almost castle-like as it sat stoically near the back of the property, amongst a small forest of mango trees and a turtle pond the size of a football field. This had been the family home for more than 200 years and Moo Moo shared it with five generations of Rubarians…and, at last count, 17 dogs and 28 cats. Naturally, these rescued dogs and cats would live in the biggest house on the farm, while much of the human help stayed in these modest temples. This was Shazza Quo!

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As we entered the house, we were greeted with a bright, cozy ambience and the smooth aroma of corn bread and vegetable soup. The overall feel and décor was quite unusual, as it was a harmonious blend of artfully designed cat trees, carved-wood litter boxes and multicolored tunnels and ramps, all flowing freely through hardwood flooring, eclectic furnishings and rare books and art. But this wasn’t like some beautiful home with a few animal accoutrements arbitrarily dropped in. It was a cohesive design that integrated both human and animal elements in a way that would’ve had Architectural Digest begging for a cover story. And yet, there was such a sense of “home” about this place.

We worked our way through five apathetic cats, two shih tzus, a Chihuahua, and three medium-sized mutts, then over to the dining room where a giant table of 21 place settings awaited. I met Moo Moo’s parents, who were in their 70’s, her grandparents, both a few years past the century mark, and an aunt and uncle who were 110 and 112, respectively. The oldest Rubarian, known as Elder Thom, was 125, but had more-or-less retired to his upstairs bedroom six months ago and didn’t come out for every meal anymore. Instead, his great, great granddaughter, Pebbles, who was Moo Moo’s 12-year-old daughter, would lovingly prepare each meal on a trey and bring it to him. She said hello to me on her way up the stairs with his lunch.

I also met Moo Moo’s partner, Ram-Boy, who would routinely put in 15-hour days around the farm. He was shirtless at the head of the table in old jeans and boots, with a rugged, muscular physique, a warm, crooked smile and long, shaggy hair. I wasn’t sure if his moniker was an offshoot of his real name (which was Ramantha), in reference to his deep affinity for rams (he had a huge ram’s head tattoo on his right arm), or a nod to his striking resemblance of a certain buffed-out American movie icon (although I doubt these people had even seen a Stallone film). He and Moo Moo had been together for nearly 20 years and had three kids together. In addition to Pebbles, this included a 10-year old son named Hawk and an eight-year old daughter named Pishi (which means “kitty” in Farsi). An array of siblings, cousins and other offspring rounded out the residents here. This was quintessential multi-generational living at its finest.

After Moo Moo’s father led us in an eloquent blessing (which involved no less than a full minute of meditation), the meal was a loud, warm and fun occasion, much like the large gatherings I used to enjoy with the Italian side of my family. There was much love and laughter throughout. During the meal I learned that everyone in the house had certain responsibilities to the maintenance of the farm, even Elder Thom, who had the token task of feeding some rabbits upstairs everyday. “We’re not letting the old man off that easy,” said Aunt Ti-Ti, who could’ve passed for Moo Moo’s older sister (and maybe she was). “What does he think this is, a retirement home?” The table erupted in laughter.

They all peppered me with questions about life “on the outside” and we talked about the animal rights movement back in the states. I was impressed by how much they knew about so many of the key issues. They even asked about the welfare vs. rights debate, which I was embarrassed to answer.

“It’s a sham,” I said. “Unfortunately, many of our long-standing animal advocate organizations have aligned themselves with the meat industry, claiming victories over these ridiculous new policies where animals are still being killed by the multimillions. I’m afraid we’re a little off course at the moment.”

That was about the only time the mood at the table got a little somber. But then I told everyone how I was going to take T-Rex back to the states with me so he could oversee the “Animal Welfare Division” at PETA, and they all broke out laughing again.

After lunch, Moo Moo took special care to introduce me to everyone else – cat, dog and rabbit – as we took a quick tour of this 15,000 square foot Shangri-La. This place seemed to have no end as we briskly walked from one room, to another study area, by another bathroom, down another hallway, through another library, by a spacious art studio, into the family gym, out into a backyard deck, back through another hallway, and so forth. There was a special “big dog” area of the house that was segregated especially for those more aggressive breeds, and they enjoyed their own fenced-in area via a doggy door. I saw that Yazzy and the school kids had made it over to this area, which along with meeting the cats, was apparently a field trip highlight. Moo Moo reminded me that dogs and cats as companion animals in Zentauria was unusual, so the kids rarely got to interact with them.

We then went upstairs through more bedrooms, hallways and studies to a huge space known as the Rabbit Room, which was set up as the ultimate environment for these free-roaming critters. I noticed the corner area of the room had a small bed and desk. Moo Moo said that one of her daughters spent a lot of time in there supervising the rabbits and making sure they were taken care of. Just then, a large white rabbit left a gift of nearly a dozen black pebbles about five feet away. But before I could even asked how they dealt with that issue, Moo Moo’s daughter quickly stepped over with a small cordless vacuum cleaner, scooped up the droppings, then sprayed and wiped the area, all in about seven seconds flat. Then it hit me. Her name was Pebbles. I turned to Moo Moo, pointed at the ground, then to her daughter and said, “Pebbles? Don’t tell me…”

Moo Moo laughed, then explained that, indeed, she had been a die-hard caretaker of rabbits since she was three. And somewhere along the way, in her zeal to keep their area clean and comfortable, she earned the name “Pebbles.” Like mother, like daughter.

Just outside the Rabbit Room, there was another study where we saw Aunt Ti-Ti reading a book behind a large mahogany desk. Moo Moo asked me if I wanted a quick “impression.” When I asked what that was, she explained that Aunt Ti-Ti was a renowned animal/human healer/psychic who performed readings using both her intuitive gifts, as well as cards. Any time an animal fell ill around Shazza Quo, Aunt Ti-Ti could diagnose them either through touch or by using special cards that featured human archetypes. For human readings, she used another deck of cards that featured animal archetypes. Next thing I knew, I was seated at the desk across from Aunt Ti-Ti and she was unfolding a colorful scarf to reveal this special deck of animal cards. Moo Moo sat quietly in a chair behind me and assumed a meditative posture.

“Alright, Bobby Rock,” Aunt Ti-Ti began. “As I spread these cards face down across the desk, I want you to close your eyes, relax and intend an even deeper clarity about where you are in your journey at the moment. I’ll join you in this intention.”

“Okay,” I said, then I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. About a minute later, I opened my eyes almost at the same time Aunt-Ti-Ti did. She then instructed me to look at the cards and, in my mind, ask for the one that would offer the most clarity to reveal itself. Her arms were folded in front of her on the desk.

I looked at the cards and did as she asked. Seconds later, so help me God, a single card in the deck jutted forward about three inches, as if it had been flicked by an invisible finger.

“Damn!” I said. “That was some Criss Angel shit!”

“Who?” Aunt Ti-Ti asked.

“He’s a well-known magician back in the states. How did you do that?”

“I didn’t. You did. Let’s see what you chose.”

She flipped it over. It was the Bear card.

“Ah, yes. This makes sense,” she said. “The Bear will not give birth to her cubs unless conditions are perfect. So this card represents the ideal of creative incubation and the intuitive discernment for when conditions will be optimal for you to ‘give birth’ to your creation. I presume you know which creation this might be?”

“Oh yes.”

“I understand you’re a percussionist, but I’m sensing that this creation is in a different medium…more like a book?”

“Correct.” Needless to say, none of these animal guardian folks knew anything about my frustrating plight with finishing The Grail.

“As you retreat into the spiritual hibernation of meditation and silence,” Aunt Ti-Ti continued, “you will be gifted all the clarity you’ll need. But, you must take the time to do this, and I’m sensing that you resist this at times.”

“Correct.”

“Try not to, brother. It’s all there for you.”

“Thank you.”

We stood and hugged, then Moo Moo and I continued on with the tour.

As we walked down another hallway past more art, more books and more relatives in front of laptops, journals and sketchpads, Moo Moo told me that the Rubarians were notorious poets and painters…especially Elder Thom, who she wanted me to meet. 125 years old? I must admit, I was expecting a real Tales From the Crypt-looking character hooked up to a bunch of tubes. But as we walked into his comfy and elegant master bedroom, Elder Thom looked like one of our better-preserved 90-year olds. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a smile, then invited us to sit for a moment near his study while he finished his tea. This old man was sharp and funny, telling us a few stories about Shazza Quo “in the good ol’ days” when he was a kid circa 1890. Back then, he said, you were more apt to see zebras and impalas, instead of cows and pigs.

When Moo Moo and I got up to leave, Elder Thom gave me a hug and said, “Enjoy the rest of it…see you over there.” What a heavy thing to say. I knew he wasn’t talking about the farm tour or him seeing me again in this physical plane.

125 years old! These folks around here just don’t die…at least not in the way that our elderly do. It appears that when a Zentaurian hits their 11th or 12th decade, they get a profound sense that their journey is coming to a fruitful conclusion here and they basically choose when and how they pass. Moo Moo told me that the family was fully expecting Elder Thom to simply go to sleep one night and not wake up. His “next adventure” was around the corner.

After we went back downstairs so I could say goodbye to everyone else, Moo Moo’s mother asked me if I had a favorite farm animal. I said that it was probably sheep, then I told them about my special ram friend named Oliver at Animal Acres back home. Just then, I realized I hadn’t seen many sheep at Shazza Quo and asked them about that. Mom gave Moo Moo a strange look then said something to her in Farsi. Moo Moo nodded, then we headed outside.

Before I had a chance to ask her what that exchange was all about, Moo Moo told me there was one other part of the farm she wanted me to see before I had to go. So we piled back into the buggy and started driving up a nearby hill on a narrow dirt path to what was clearly a more isolated part of the property.

“As you know,” she said, “many sheep who have been exploited by the wool trade in Australia wind up as food in Africa and the Middle East.”

“Yeah, and I’ve heard that the ship ride over here and everything that happens to them…”

“…is among the most inexcusably abusive we’ve ever seen,” Moo Moo cut in. “These beings are all crammed onto these ships, thousands at a time, and endure weeks of travel in conditions so horrifying that about 10% die on the way. It is an ugly offshoot of the wool industry that few people really know about. And it’s so heartbreaking, too, because, you know, sheep, in particular, have such a natural innocence…such a pure sweetness about them.”

We were almost to the top of the hill.

“A few months back, I heard that a number of these sheep somehow managed to find their way off of one of these ships and escape their fate. Of course, I never knew what happened to those 73 sheep…” Moo Moo said with a smile, purposely avoiding eye contact.

Just then, we arrived at a lookout point at the top of the hill. It overlooked a stunning piece of farmland utopia, with acres of greenery, several glistening ponds, dozens of trees and…73 sheep, grazing peacefully in the midst of it all.

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Further Reflections – 3:11 AM

Back home, I do a talk for youngsters called “Expanding Your Circle of Compassion.” It’s geared mainly for middle and high school kids and I usually do it in conjunction with the student’s visit to Animal Acres, the farm animal sanctuary where I volunteer as part of a humane education presentation. The talk is built around the notion that we have all unknowingly constructed an invisible circle around ourselves and have placed certain people and animals on the inside and the rest on the outside. The inside group represents those beings who we generally choose to extend compassion toward, while the outside group represents those who we generally do not.

The point is, I encourage them to expand their circle; to stretch beyond their current levels of tolerance, understanding and compassion to always try to include more of the humans and animals that they have on the outside, and invite them into the inside. This is especially challenging where farm animals are concerned, not because these kids have any inherent disdain for these critters, but because our culture has taught them all of their lives that farm animals play an indispensable role in their breakfast, lunch and dinner.

So today, I found myself observing these Zentaurian kids from the perspective of the “Expanding Your Circle of Compassion” ideal. And as I tried to gage where they were at regarding their own circle, it suddenly hit me: There is no circle here. It doesn’t exist. These kids have no cultural biases remotely suggesting that a cow or goat has any less of a right to be here than a dog or a rabbit, any more than they would ever be taught that one human ethnicity was superior to another. In fact, they embrace diversity in all forms and seem to make little distinction between the sanctity of human life vs. animal life.

If only our adults could be as evolved as these children in this way, we would be living in a much more peaceful and harmonious world. As I talk about in The Grail, I have always found it a bit ass-backwards that we, as a conscientious society, gather around the dinner table and denounce war, domestic abuse, gang violence, social injustices, urban crime rates, or even animal cruelty, while much of the very meal we’re consuming has been derived from unspeakable acts of exploitation and violence against our fellow animals. Clearly, even many of our wisest have yet to make the connection between the “behind-the-scenes” violence rampant in modern animal agriculture and the more obvious, “in-your-face” violence that has a more pronounced presence in our daily lives. It’s all connected, and we can’t escape the inevitable cause-and-affect fallout that we are cultivating through these actions…whether we are aware of this connection or not.

My experience today really got me back in touch with the original premise of the animal rights movement: that animals have a right to live freely and peacefully under our watchful guardianship and should not be harmed, imprisoned, exploited or killed for any reason. Period. The Zentaurians live and breathe this ideal without even recognizing that it’s some kind of movement. And seeing what it’s like for an entire society to live under this premise has only reinforced to me why I will never intentionally contribute to the suffering, exploitation or killing of an animal. Ever.

Likewise, it has been a poignant reminder why we shouldn’t waste a lot of time in support of any activity or philosophy that represents anything less than the complete abolishment of animal exploitation, even when it’s under the misleading umbrella of “cage-free,” “free-range” or “humane slaughter.” Complete liberation is our only hope. And until we get this, we are all, at best, like a bunch of benevolent slave owners, perpetuating a culture of subjugation and violence that will continue to echo through every facet of our earthly experience.

© 2009 Bobby Rock

 

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