Llamas typically live about 10 to 15 years. Our llama King was 21. Looking back, I suppose I should not have been surprised when he started lying down more often, flaring his nostrils, and squatting in an unusual fashion. We called the veterinarian right away. The ultrasound revealed a large tumor in his bladder and kidneys. The doctor explained that it must have been there a long time, but, thankfully, it did not cause symptoms until it did. She prescribed steroids and pain medication to keep King comfortable but said that he was not a surgical candidate because of his age and the placement of the tumor.

Once we set up a clear treatment schedule with our staff, I sat down to communicate with King and get his take on everything, ask him how he was feeling, and see what he wanted. I had not finished my meditation yet when just glancing at his picture left a tight, swollen, heavy feeling in my stomach like I had swallowed a 10-pound rock. The pain was constant and relentless. I tried my best to ignore it as I settled down to start our conversation and ask him what his favorite things were in order to connect. He shared memories with me, and I felt very close to him.

Then I asked King how he was feeling and the sensation of carrying a rock around inside of me returned full force. If I was feeling things this strongly intuitively, I had so much empathy for what King was actually experiencing in real life. I asked him what he wanted, and he asked for stronger pain medication. He said that he wanted as much time as he could get but could not continue the way things were. We had another conversation with our vet and she gave King stronger medication which made him much more comfortable. He was able to eat and enjoy another peaceful evening with his sheep and goat companions that he affectionately referred to as his “little people.”

The next morning King seemed peaceful but would not stand or walk. I excused myself to talk to him again and check in. I asked King why he could not stand, and he said that he did not want to. He felt peaceful and was ready to transition. He did not want to wait until the pain returned and he was suffering but preferred to go while he felt at ease. I asked him if there was anything he needed or wanted before the veterinarian arrived and he asked to be placed at the top of the barnyard, his throne of 16 years, so he could peruse the yard one more time and watch his beloved animal companions once more. We carried King across the barnyard on a stretcher, laid him down on a bed of soft blankets, rested him under the shade of a tent, and surrounded him with three cooling fans while he sipped strawberry electrolytes. We offered bananas and cookies, shared stories of his kisses and selfies, and snuggled with him, stroking his soft neck and gazing into his giant soulful eyes laced with long white lashes.

When the veterinarian arrived, King looked strong, brave, and sure. He leaned into us and left his body quickly, easily, and peacefully. Afterward, I was struck by how beautiful his passing was. It was when and how he wanted it to be. It was on his own terms in his own way. We had listened to his requests, honored his wishes, and walked him home beautifully.

I can’t imagine doing this work without him by our side, but when I think of King, I feel too happy to be sad. What a stunning reign and what a lovely transition!

For more stories about how death can be beautiful, read or listen to my new book, “Cow Hug Therapy,” available on Amazon, anywhere books are sold, and on my website EllieLaks.com