09/07/2025
PEOPLE ASK ME WHY THE AMISH DON’T EUTHANIZE THEIR ANIMALS AND DECIDE TO SEND THEM TO AUCTION OR SLAUGHTER…
And after the development of a robust Amish surrender program, and speaking to numerous people involved in the community, and having many real life experiences — I think I’m at last somewhat qualified to answer.
Now I’m not saying I know everything, but I know some things, and this might just be one of them.
The pony below, her name is Sugarcane, spent most of her life in the Amish. She took the children to school and stood loyally outside waiting in the rain, the snow and the extreme heat and humidity. No water. No hay.
If you live in Amish country, you’ve seen ponies like Sugarcane tied outside stores and churches and schoolhouses.
Little hands and little legs climbed onto her back, hitching up dresses with a quick suspicious scan of the surroundings, as bare feet and thick braids are cast aside into the wind right along with the maybe watching eyes of religious inhibitions attempting to tame a wilder spirit.
Sugarcane represented freedom. She was something joyous and her mane danced in the wind alongside the souls of laughing children for years. On her back? They were free.
Sugarcane has seen a lot of little feet grow into bigger homemade shoes and homespun dresses with their seams let all the way out, but there was always the next generation of bare feet padding to her pasture— the scent of cookies and dirt on the horizon, sticky hands and a sticky seat as she was galloped over the hills to the soundtrack of endless giggling.
She brought every little one back safe and sound, while raising her own. She was pulling that buggy while carrying one extra on board in more ways than one.
How many of Sugarcane’s babies are out in the world? God knows. Only God knows.
Time… it marches on, and it can be a cruel thief. It stole Sugarcane’s youth and then her hips got too stiff, her hind legs didn’t bend the same way and instead swung out wide with arthritis…
She couldn’t keep up to get to the little schoolhouse. She couldn’t stand outside all day— she’d grown too stiff to drive home.
And that’s where it all goes wrong…
You’ve heard the story before. Sugarcane dropped off at the auction, catching a ride on something she’s never seen before: a horse trailer. These men, these hypocritical men, are breaking God’s law effortlessly to gain a little bit of that green paper corrupting everything these days.
Sold straight into slaughter without a second look. Pick up your check at the end of night without bothering to say goodbye to the old friend who raised your children as much as anyone.
It’s one of the saddest stories in the world, and it’s happening every week at New Holland Auction and has been for decades and decades.
From my personal experience and what has been said to me, the Amish don’t believe in humane euthanasia. Your time to go is up to God, not man.
Unless the body is being used for a higher purpose like feeding a family or keeping them warm, to simply allow a peaceful passing with no human gain is morally wrong.
Just like that little green piece of paper, moral rules like these, they are eating away our empathy and our kindness.
The worst cancer doesn’t grow inside a body— it’s greed, and it metastasizes faster than man can see.
I deeply disagree with this way of throwing out souls— as you know, I laid my mule to rest and made sure his last day wasn’t anywhere near his worst— but this is just the way some Amish people feel. I’m sure you know some “good ones” but even good people make poor decisions.
I don’t claim to be perfect, and my words are not in judgment but in truth.
These people know slaughter is a risk of sending their ponies and horses to auction.
They don’t care.
They know it and teach it as Godly.
In their world… Animals don’t feel pain. They don’t have souls. They are to be used and discarded.
Little soft hands become bigger callused ones, numb to the pain of the little pony who gave all she had, even all the strength in her little body, and those bigger callused hands are the ones who take ponies like Sugarcane to the garbage dump in thanks.
Little hands and little hearts grow into bigger and number ones.
Bought by the slaughterhouse, Sugarcane was going to be shipped to Canada for zoo meat.
This is acceptable to her former owners.
This wasn’t acceptable for the softer hearts of my wife’s rescue, Colby’s Crew.
I found Sugarcane inside, pus leaking from her eyes, sides heaving with pneumonia. Dying.
What would her children think of her now?
And if they could see the horror of what I saw then— would they really believe she felt no pain? Had no soul?
Her eyes had a faraway look.
She’s somewhere else— dancing across the meadow to the giggles of a little one, the ones she loved and protected so much.
But my hands were once small and soft too.
But my heart? My heart is still soft as my hands when they were little.
And I use all three of them to unlock the gate of her prison, to lead her out, to load her onto a truck and trailer.
I give her a kiss on her soft nose.
She rides the forty five minutes that must have felt like a road to something worse. Auction, slaughter, now what?
She didn’t left her head. Who cares? Bring it.
The trucks engines quit, the vibrations in the aluminum trailer stop, and nervous horses stamp and shift. They’ve arrived.
The door is open, light exploding inside, and one by one they are led off by gentle hands.
But for Sugarcane?
It’s little hands again, the smell of cookies and dirt, and the brief kiss of tiny lips on Sugarcane’s cheek.
The pony comes alive. She whiskers softly, the way a mama might call her foal, and when the lead shake snaps onto her halter, the rope neatly held by little mischievous fingers.
Her head snaps up proudly.
So these new people— they understand.
Her purpose— her joy— tiny feet padding beside tiny hooves against the ground of the trailer and then together, leaping to another meadow.
Oh here comes the old pony with her arthritis and her funny swinging legs — and she—she comes alive. Her head is held proudly high, there is spring in her step and her tail a thick banner.
“Climb aboard kid,” she tosses her soft muzzle into the child’s direction, “let’s gallop this whole meadow and be free.”
Little R’s delighted giggle and the prancing steps of the pony are the last thing you hear when the video cuts.
But it’s not where it ends.
A little girl waking up and tossing on her quarantine clothes to visit an old white pony.
An old white pony that meets her at the gate.
Little hands the encircle a shaggy neck and place kisses on a whiskered cheek.
“Don’t worry, Sugar,” she promises, “one day your own little girl will adopt you and never let you go.”
See the difference in an ending like this one is— new people will come for Sugarcane, pick her out of all the other ponies, and little hands will encircle her neck once again.
But this time… this time when they grow into bigger and more callused ones, they won’t ever let go.
They will visit her until she grows weaker and needs to sadly say goodbye.
And those hands?
They will hold her neck as she leaves this world and into the next. A walk to heaven should never be alone for anyone.
And for Colby’s Crew Rescue?
Our job is to make sure ponies like Sugarcane have the ending they deserve.
Happily ever after. A golden sunset.
The girls are coming.
And the horses know.
