Abe's Vigil- A Lesson in Loyalty and Love

There’s a magic to stories that reach deep into the soul, stories that bring to life the beauty, humor, and heartache of living with animals. As I sat down to write about Abe, my first, and now one of four of my beloved Great Pyrenees, I couldn’t help but think of James Herriot—the legendary storyteller who so eloquently captured the lives of animals and the people who love them. Inspired by his gentle, heartfelt style, I’d like to share a story that could have been lifted from the pages of one of his books.

It began, like so many of Herriot’s tales, with an unexpected twist of fate.

The Meeting

It was a chance meeting, the kind of moment you might chalk up to fate. I was wandering through a yard sale in Brasstown, not looking for anything in particular, when I saw him. Abe. He was 125 pounds of pure presence, his massive white coat gleaming in the sunlight, and his eyes holding a quiet wisdom that seemed to say, I know more about this world than I’ll ever let on. His owners were moving, and Abe—once the steadfast guardian of their small farm—had no place to go and no job to do.

I had just finished building our little barn back home, a cozy space for three baby goats I’d named Fred, Fiddle, and Ferdinand. Something about Abe pulled me in, and when the homeowner told me he could be mine for free, I didn’t hesitate. Loading him into the back of my dad’s pickup, I couldn’t have known then how much he would change my perspective on some things.

The Day of the Crying Gate

Abe quickly made himself at home, proving to be as gentle as he was imposing. His quiet, watchful demeanor brought a sense of peace to the farm. He rarely made a fuss, content to patrol the pastures and lay near the barn, keeping his charges safe. That’s why, on one chilly Spring morning, his behavior struck me as so peculiar.

He stood at the gate to the adjacent pasture, crying—a low, mournful sound I had never heard from him before. At first, I thought he might have spotted a stray dog or a deer, but his cries carried an urgency I couldn’t ignore. I grabbed my coat and hurried to let him through.

The moment the gate swung open, Abe shot across the field, his massive paws pounding the earth with purpose. I followed, my heart racing. As I crested the small hill, I saw it: a tiny calf lying on its side, struggling weakly against the cold. The mother must have delivered it during the night, and somehow, we had missed it.

A Shepherd’s Love

Abe reached the calf before I did, circling it once before settling his giant body over the fragile creature. He draped himself over it like a living blanket, shielding it from the wind. The new mother, several feet away with a look of worry and confusion. With his great head bent low, he began licking the calf’s face, his tongue moving gently, as if coaxing life back into the tiny form.

I knelt beside them, feeling the chill radiating from the calf’s body. It was clear the little one was in trouble—its breathing was shallow, its movements feeble. My heart ached as I worked to warm it, rubbing its small frame and trying to get it sternal so it could breathe easier. I even brought warm milk, hoping it might nurse, but nothing worked.

Abe didn’t move. He stayed there, his weight anchoring the calf to the earth, his soft whines the only sound in the stillness of the pasture. He seemed to know what I was only beginning to accept: this battle might already be lost.

Abe’s Vigil

When the calf finally passed, a heavy silence fell over the field. I tried to coax Abe back to the barn, but he refused. He stood his ground, his body still shielding the lifeless calf as if he could will it back to life.

The sky grew more gray in the hour and the rain began to fall, first in gentle drops and then in a steady downpour. I watched as Abe laid himself back down, his thick coat soaked through, his massive frame unyielding. For seven hours, he kept his vigil, refusing to leave the calf’s side. When we finally removed the little body, Abe followed slowly, his head low, his usual quiet dignity marked by an unspoken sorrow. He looked the way my heart felt.

The Lesson of the Vigil

That day, Abe taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. His actions were more than instinct—they were a reflection of something deeper: loyalty, compassion, and a profound respect for life. Abe couldn’t save the calf, but he stayed with it, offering comfort in its final moments, even as the rain soaked his fur and the chill crept in.

In Abe’s vigil, I saw a mirror of the human experience. We all face moments when we can’t change the outcome, when the weight of loss feels unbearable. But like Abe, we can show up. We can lay ourselves down beside the ones we love, offering warmth and presence, even when we can’t offer a solution.

Abe reminded me that sometimes, simply being there is enough. His quiet strength and unwavering loyalty taught me more about grace in loss than any words ever could.

A Guardian’s Heart

Abe continues to be the heart of our farm, his steadfast presence a source of comfort for all who meet him. His story is a reminder that love and care don’t always look like grand gestures. Sometimes, they look like a big, white dog lying in the rain, refusing to leave, reminding us all what it means to truly shepherd those we hold dear.