10/03/2026
Caring for livestock is hard.
It’s hard physically.
It hits hard financially.
And good God, it is hard emotionally.
On Thursday, we lost Pascal.
Pascal was supposed to grow into the head honcho of this farm. He was the face of it.
Pascal got a stick lodged in his throat. We rushed him to UF Animal Hospital in Gainesville as fast as we could, but we just couldn’t get him there in time to save him.
He passed while they were getting the sled ready to get him out of the trailer.
My heart is absolutely shattered.
Jonathan got Pascal for me for my birthday last year. He was a bottle baby, so from pretty much the very beginning, we got to build a special bond with him.
He wasn’t just an animal here that we knew was meant to be used for food. Or one that we knew wouldn’t be sticking around long.
He was our “The Bull.”
We had plans for that boy. Big plans that lasted years and years.
But today, if I’m being honest, I’m not just sad, I’m angry.
I hate that I live in an area that has become so damn urbanized, yet when you have livestock, finding someone who actually treats large hoof stock can feel like trying to find a unicorn.
We have small-animal vets everywhere. I swear there are four of them in not even 1.5 square miles.
But when you have a cow choking on a Thursday morning, that doesn’t do you much damn good.
I called one recommended vet after another. They were either not in my area, not available, or I needed a chute.
I need somebody who knows cows. And could treat a 200 lb mini highland bull calf in distress.
I need somebody who can come to the farm.
I need somebody who can put their hands on the animal, figure out what the hell is happening and start treating it.
And I need that person BEFORE I’m standing there trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to get a panicked, sick or dying cow loaded into a trailer.
Because livestock emergencies don’t give a damn what time it is.
They don’t care if it’s a weekend.
They don’t care if your vet is booked.
And they sure as hell don’t care that the nearest large-animal emergency facility is a long damn drive away.
That’s the part about this life that people don’t see.
One morning, everything changes in a matter of minutes.
And you’re left standing there thinking, “Okay. Now what?”
Who can see him?
Who can actually treat him?
How fast can I get there?
And will I get there in time?
We don’t have a Dr. Pol here.
We don’t have somebody who is going to pull into the driveway with a Jeep Cherokee, full of equipment, walk into the pasture and say, “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”
I wish to God we did.
Not because veterinarians don’t care. I know they do.
But because livestock needs a different kind of access to veterinary medicine.
And rural people who choose to raise livestock deserve access to that care too.
Because when you’re dealing with a cow, a bull, a goat, a sheep, a pig, or any other large animal, sometimes the difference between saving them and losing them isn’t whether you were willing to try.
Sometimes it’s whether somebody was close enough to help.
And Thursday, we tried.
We loaded Pascal.
We drove.
We pushed as hard as we could to get him there.
But we ran out of time.
Pascal should have had years here.
He should have grown into that big, goofy bull we always pictured him becoming. He should have been out here bossing everybody around, standing in the middle of everything, and making sure everyone knew this was his farm too.
Instead, we are standing here trying to figure out how to keep doing what we do with one less set of hooves in the pasture.
I don’t have some profound lesson from this yet.
Right now, I’m just heartbroken.
And I’m angry.
And I’m tired.
And I’m going to miss that damn bull more than I can put into words.
Rest easy, Pascal.
