Read about Cassie on MSNBC.com

I met Cassie the cow on October 21, 2007, six years to the day that I became vegan.  I attended a fundraising benefit at Maple Farm Sanctuary, where Cassie lives, in Mendon, MA, about 15 miles from my home.  I’d heard about Cassie through the local vegetarian grapevine but had never met her.  She’s somewhat of a local celebrity.  She, like her famous predecessor Emily, had escaped from the same Hopkinton, MA slaughterhouse, had spent some time on the lam, and then ended up at The Peace Abbey in Sherborn, MA.  Emily lived at The Peace Abbey for 8 years, becoming its ambassador, and was adored by schoolchildren and the elderly alike for her gentleness and lovability, before dying of cancer in 2003. 

Cassie came to Maple Farm from a short time at The Peace Abbey to live out her years in tranquility, grazing the fields with other rescued cows.  Or that was the plan anyway.  Cassie it turns out was quite affected emotionally by what she experienced in the slaughterhouse, or by where she’d been even before that.  She was terrified to leave her stall in the barn—if required to do so, her eyes would grow huge with terror, she’d move evasively, and then she’d break free of her handlers and run, jumping fences and stone walls in her stead.  For over three years, she’d been confined to a double stall in the sanctuary barn, made light by only a small window, and the fundraiser to which I’d been invited was to garner funds to build an overhang of sorts so that she could receive the benefits of being outdoors without leaving the comfort and familiarity of the barn. 

Cassie had been evaluated by Nicholas Dodman, MD, one of this country’s preeminent animal behaviorists, based at nearby Tufts University Veterinary School.  He’d diagnosed her with PTSD and agoraphobia.  There was some question as to whether she might be a freemartin as well—a cow with altered reproductive organs and hormonal issues that never gives birth.  Cows that can’t breed aren’t good for much in the US, since they won’t become nursing mothers and produce milk nor will they produce the next generation of dairy cows or veal calves.  Dr. Dodman advised antidepressant and antianxiety medication but, as a ruminant with five stomachs, the drugs were differently digested and metabolized and they actually made Cassie’s symptoms worse.  Euthanasia was suggested and rejected.  Cheri and Jim, the sanctuary’s owners, came up with the solution of the partially-enclosed barn idea and hoped that it would be the best of both worlds for Cassie.

It struck me that Cassie had an enormous burden that needed inner healing.  I introduced myself to Cheri at the end of the barn tour and asked if I could come in a few days and pray with Cassie and she just about fell into my arms in a grateful hug saying, “Yes, please!”  We made an appointment for the following Thursday at 2 pm.




When I arrived at the barn, I let myself in a side door, since I didn’t see anyone around.  The barn radio was playing Sarah McLachlan’s “In The Arms of The Angel”.  It was Indian summer and the barn was warm, the smell of hay sweet and new.  Cheri must have seen my car and she came to greet me.  She showed me where to get a folding chair so I could be nose-level to pray with Cassie which required going out of the barn and around to the other end but to get back to Cassie, I could take a route back through the middle.  I came to call it the Running the Gauntlet. 

The middle of the barn was a series of gates and chutes designed to keep the other animals in their pens and either segregated from one another or away from humans or food or both.  The gates could be left open or closed in combination to allow for cleaning and other chores.  Along one wall were crested ducks in one pen, piglets in another, an assortment of goats, llamas, alpacas, sheep, turkeys, a potbellied pig, two miniature ponies, bunnies and numerous chickens and roosters of seemingly endless varieties.  Opening the door to the main corridor functioned as an alarm that notified the residents that a two-footer had entered therefore all eyes would turn to survey the potential that snacks might be forthcoming. In a unique ballet, I’d move as deftly as I could between the fur and feathers, scratching heads and cooing hellos, avoiding beaks, sidestepping horns and dodging underbites seeking sweater sleeves (those goats sure do like textiles).  I let the llamas smell my hair—it’s their way of telling you apart from, say, the blacksmith—and hoped I make it to the other end without slipping on some “Maple Farm marbles”.

I found Cassie in her stall, chewing on hay, and, not knowing me, she immediately moved toward the window, eyes wide.  I told her my name and that I was here to pray with her because I’d heard she’d been through a rough time.  Cheri warned me Cassie didn’t allow people to touch her head so I assumed laying on of hands would have to be in the figurative sense.  I began praying, with my palms directed toward Cassie, and my eyes open.  It has taken me a while to get used to praying without closing my eyes, but it’s necessary in healing prayer ministries so you can observe what’s going on with your supplicant.  It’s doubly important with animals, especially farm animals—you need to know where they are and what they’re doing at all times for your safety and theirs.

I spent about 45 minutes, sitting outside the stall in front of the 4 ½ -ft high wire gate, simply praying out loud that God would wipe away all Cassie’s painful memories, that He’d remove all dis-ease that’s stored in her nervous system and rain down on her the peace that passes all understanding.  She gradually made her way away from the window and quietly munched some hay from inside the gate just beyond my feet.  She allowed me to stroke her nose briefly through the wire hatching and when I stood up to leave and say goodbye, I reached out over the top of the gate.  Cassie’s enormous tongue came flashing out of her mouth and bathed my forearm up to my elbow.  I felt I’d made a friend.

When I walked out of the barn to head home, the chickens were bopping to Michael Bublé’s “Everything”.

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