Some posts take longer for me to write. This one is no exception.
The week before last, we lost our beloved Hershey.
Hershey was born on the farm on a rainy August morning. He was a beautiful and wonderful surprise at a time when we needed it.
Shortly after his birth, he was joined by his half-brother, Wafer, and his half-sister, Nilla, and the three of them became our very own source of constant joy and entertainment.
Hershey’s personality was priceless. From day one, Hershey always seemed to be smiling. He wasn’t shy, nor dominant. He was always kind. Sure, he would rough house like the rest of the other boy llamas and alpacas, but he was always one of the first to greet me or follow me curiously around the field. He didn’t shy away from my touch or a little boop on the nose. He was sort of “my guy”.
A few years ago, Hershey was injured after a game of chase with the other boys, and he slipped on the ice. His right rear leg was never quite the same after that. Fearing for his ongoing safety, we built him his own little house and pen, right in the middle of the field and attached to the llama/alpaca barn so he could still be right in the middle of things. He was often accompanied in there by two or three gentle friends. Hershey sort of became the king of his own little herd and he really seemed to relish that. He got special attention, extra food, and definitely a lot more treats; not to mention a hug every morning from me.
In the last year, Hershey’s pen became the safety zone where our newly adopted farm friends would also hang out. At first, they would be safely separated by fencing to acclimate but eventually they all would hang out together. Luna, Apolla, and most recently Prancer and Maartina, all joined Hershey’s herd and bonded. While the others had the freedom to go out during the day if they wanted to, they often chose to stay in with Hershey, making that area the envy of the rest of the herd, who always believed there was something really good happening on that side of the fence.
Hershey’s leg would sometimes give him trouble and he would need a little assist to get up. He let me help him without issue. He would receive my assist and then quickly turn and look for the treat in my hand. Even if he didn’t need an assist, I started each morning calling out to him as I entered the field, primarily because I loved the fact that he seemed to know I was calling to him and would quickly look in my direction, ears up, waiting for his morning treat and greeting. I loved my special time with Hershey.
His last day started like any other. It was hot. I had brought out one of the pools and had filled it, and he was watching me from inside his pen. I hollered out to him that his pool would be next, but I had to get to a work call. In hindsight, I wonder if that look was something more, because when I went out during my lunch break to get his pool, he was laying in his pen, stretched out, looking as though he was sunning like many of the others were. I called to him and he didn’t move. My heart sunk. I raced over and discovered that he was gone. Just like that. No warning. No sign. I was devastated.
Hershey now rests near his pen, where he can continue to be and will always be the king of his little herd. I’ve noticed, interestingly enough, that Maartina seems to have really taken his loss the hardest. Even though they knew each other the shortest amount of time, they were bonded, because that was the kind of guy Hershey was – loveable and accepting. It gives me comfort to think of Hershey and Wafer, together again, running, playing and being the carefree and loving llamapacas that they were here on this Earth.
Rest easy Hersh; you were a treasure that will never be forgotten.
