The Protector of All Living Things

When I was in high school, my parents moved us to a farm in the Methow Valley.

We had a cattle ranch, along with chickens, a goat, horses, dogs, and cats. Beyond the fence line, the wild was always present—coyotes, rattlesnakes, cougars, bears, deer, and an abundance of birds. Owls, eagles, pheasants, ravens, and so many more filled the skies and trees around us.

We were surrounded by the Cascade Mountain Range, and at the center of it all—what felt like the center of the world—was a small farmhouse with a slightly tipped porch. For a time, that little house held my whole world.

My brother, Robert, lived on the farm with us, along with my younger sister and our parents. Robert was not only my brother, but my dear friend and constant companion. He had a quiet way about him, and a deep, unwavering respect for life. In many ways, he was a protector of all living things.

This story is one small window into Robert’s heart.

One Winter

My brother brought a frozen chicken into the farmhouse—a stiff-legged banty. Specks of snow and frost covered her body. Her black eyes darted.

“She’s really cold!” my brother said. “I found her outside the coop, solid frozen. She didn’t even move when I came toward her.”

He pulled a chair toward the fire and opened the door to gather the heat. “Poor little girl,” he said. He held her body in his hands and aimed her claws toward the flame. The chicken let out slow bawks of approval.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asked.

My father sat and shook his head.

When my mother wasn’t looking, my brother went into the kitchen and filled a large pan with lukewarm water. He placed the chicken in the pan in the kitchen sink—and forgot her.

Ten minutes later, I heard a scream.

“Robert!” my mother yelled. “What is this chicken doing in my nice pan!?”

“Oh, I’ll wash it,” he said.

He gathered the chicken in his arms, dried her off on a dish towel, and carried her back to the heated coop.