There’s peace (and cow hugging) with misfit animals

A couple of goats and a wooly sheep greeted me at Aimee’s Farm Animal Sanctuary in Queen Creek, bleating and following me along the fence.

They were sweet. But I was there to hug a cow.

Aimee Takaha met me at the gate. For 11 years, she has rescued farm animals from slaughter, many of them animals with disabilities.

Scooter, a 4-year-old goat, uses a wheelchair. A pygmy goat named Tinkerbell has three legs. There are blind goats, abandoned rabbits and hens that don’t lay eggs.

Takaha and her volunteers feed, groom and play with them. The animals receive medical care and a haven to live out their lives.

Oliver, a 700-pound hog who has scoliosis, was the size of a football three years ago and couldn’t walk. But with laser treatment and acupuncture, Takaha now clocks him at 10 mph.

A black burro named Milton Burro, brought to her by Bureau of Land Management officials, hurried over to be petted, a tiny burro with a crooked gait following behind.

“To me, they are absolutely perfect when they’re imperfect,” Takaha said.

Gracie, a sheep whose neck is twisted from torticollis, a birth defect, kicked a ball. Duke, a cow born in May with dwarfism and missing bones in his legs, is groomed three times a day to prevent bed sores. He was napping after a massage.

Veterinarians assure Takaha he’s not in pain.

“There’s no suffering here,” she said. Only healing.

It’s a peaceful place, the willow acacia trees shading pens and grassy areas across four acres.

Studies show interacting with any animal can reduce stress by boosting oxytocin, which is why they’re so often used in therapy.

The children and adults with disabilities who visit the farm seem to relate to

the animals who were born different, Takaha said. A 16-year-old boy who has autism said his first word here: bunny.

Two cows walked obstacles with kids struggling to do the same. Goats leaned in for hugs. Pigs rolled on their sides for belly rubs.

“It’s like they have a purpose here,” Takaha said.

The sanctuary also has a purpose, Takaha said. It’s a place where animals and people heal.

She feels it herself.

Takaha is a survivor of childhood abuse. When it was happening, she’d imagine a farm to escape it. It was where she felt safe.

Takaha believes farm animals saved her. She owes them something in return.

A few years ago, she realized her flashbacks from post-traumatic stress syndrome were less frequent when she petted and hugged cows between chores. It soothed her.

“That’s how I recognized the she said.

It’s why she started offering cowhugging sessions five years ago to raise money for the farm. It costs $6,000 a month to feed and care for the animals.

Visits are by appointment. Sessions are $75, and she’s booked through June. There’s been a lot more interest lately. People are stressed. It’s something different to do outdoors.

Scarlet, a 7-month old cow, rescued from a dairy that was shutting down,

healing,” lifted her head for me to scratch her neck. She licked my face, nuzzled my ear and did it again when I laughed.

“You’re a beauty, aren’t you?” She really was.

Takaha has watched the cows’ behavior for thousands of hours. She knows their favorite spots to be scratched and when they’re not in the mood.

Scarlet closed her dark eyes and rested her head on my shoulder.

“They like it. They’re at peace,” Takaha said. The cows don’t have to do it. They can walk away at any time.

A 2007 study in the journal Applied Animal Behaviour Science found cows show cues of deep relaxation, stretching out and allowing their ears to fall back when stroked.

Adorabull, an Angus mix, was more interested in my notebook than me.

A construction worker found Adorabull seven months ago in a canal, her umbilical cord still attached. Takaha and volunteers had to tube feed her every three hours.

Moothias, a 3-year-old red-andwhite Herford, is Takaha’s best hugger. “He’s pure goodness,” she said.

His fur was soft, brushed every day and warm from the sun.

Maybe it was the warmth of his body against my back, the rhythm of his heartbeat and the weight of his head on my lap. Maybe it was his sheer size.

My breathing slowed to match his. I felt my shoulders relax.

The cow and I sighed at the same time. No suffering here. Only healing.

karina.bland@arizonarepublic.com.