A sanctuary icon, gone too soon
The world can be a desolate place. Panda Bob learned that early on. His dying mom carried him to term, waiting until she saw him fed to take her last breath.
Panda Bob’s most traumatic moment is the exact moment he entered the sanctuary. It is surreal to think about that. He lost AND gained so much on his first day in the world.
Panda Bob loved bottle feedings. Mortimer, a calf rescued at the same time, would savor every drop. Panda Bob? Not so much. He needed the “slow down” bottle.
That is how Panda Bob lived his life – he gulped it all down.
As a calf, Panda Bob wore coats to keep warm, sometimes double-layering on particularly cold days. I have not met a calf quite so dapper as Panda Bob in his aquamarine coat!
As a teenager, Panda Bob was a terror. This is common in calves raised by humans. We lack the skills, size, and strength to bodily correct a pushy baby! I still loved to visit him, but was always on guard. His idea of play included running right through people and being baffled when they would crash to the ground.
Panda Bob wrote letters to the world. As much as I loved ghost-writing these letters, I loved his fans’ responses more. They brought joy.
As an adult, Panda Bob learned to moderate his physicality. He stopped running into me, but I knew that a walking Panda Bob could still be dangerous. If he approached head-on, I would dodge out of his way at the last second. He would pause, so I could scratch his shoulders and back – all those hard-to-reach places.
Panda was stubborn. He was independent. He loved Mortimer fiercely and grieved his loss deeply. He never found a bovine replacement for Mortimer. He preferred human friends over cows, although he always enjoyed being in the company of his herd.
While cows can hold grudges, Panda Bob never did.
Please be kind for this next part. We avoid this vulnerability because we struggle with how readers might choose to respond.
Panda Bob held on at the end for us, his human loved ones. He crammed 5 years’ worth of love, scratches, treats, and attention into the last two weeks of his life.
We scheduled his euthanasia. It is (and should be) an uncomfortable feeling, planning someone’s death. We could always cancel. We knew that.
But Panda Bob knew something else. He was ready. On the very day of his scheduled euthanasia, he went down and did not get back up. We kept him comfortable until the veterinarian came out.
All of us agree that Panda Bob held on for us. He held on for the sound of the gate opening. He held on for someone to stroke his strong neck. He held on for each hay cube, each comforting hand and voice of love. He held on until every person could say their goodbyes.
I whispered to him the night before his death, “you can let go, you can go, it’s okay, we’ll be okay.” He leaned into my hand and sighed. Okay, he seemed to be saying. I’m ready too.
While he took his last breaths, I held his muzzle in my hands. I did the same when he was a baby. His head could fit into the palm of my hands, and he would rest it there. Now, I could only fit his nose in my hands! He had grown into a magnificent, powerful, kind, gentle being.
As he took his last breaths, I remembered many of his first breaths. His small, shallow breaths of rest as a baby. His excited pants as he raced around his pasture, Mortimer in tow. His wild whoops of joy when he’d barrel over to say hi. And now, his breaths slowed, each inhale further from the last.
Until finally, they stopped.
Mine too. I held my breath, aching for him to take one more.
I don’t know that there will ever be a cow like Panda Bob. I hope there is.
If I can ask one thing of you, it is this: tell someone you love them, for who they are in whatever moment they are in. Panda Bob gave us all so much grace. I would love for you to do the same.
Miss you so much, sweet boy.
-Marji
Panda Bob: 2014-2025
