Mr. Johnsons was one of those animals who didn’t need to be loud to be important. He had a calm, steady presence, and he brought something special to this farm from the day he arrived. The kind of animal you’d notice even when he wasn’t doing much at all, just because he carried himself with so much quiet gentleness.
A big part of his story is what he lived through before he came here. Before Mr. Johnsons came to us, he was injured while working as a packing llama. We were told he slipped while being unloaded with a heavy pack on, which caused an injury to all 4 tendons that affected his mobility from that point on. Because of that, we did our best to let him move at his own pace and feel comfortable. And somehow, even with that, he still ended up being one of the ones the herd looked to. He had this way of being steady that seemed to make everyone around him feel steady too.
Once he settled in, you could really see what kind of role he naturally took on. One of the best things about Mr. Johnsons was how he looked after the animals who needed extra comfort. Before we did tours, when the babies stayed with the main herd, he would post up in the barn doorway and lay in the sun. The babies would curl up next to him, and he’d gently nuzzle them. It was simple, but it meant everything. Like he was telling them, without making a big deal about it, that they were safe.
That gentle energy showed up in other relationships too, and one of the sweetest was with Buffy. When Buffy first came to the farm, she was overwhelmed and didn’t seem to know where she fit in. After a few days of wandering around, she found Mr. Johnsons and decided she was sticking with him. She followed him everywhere. When he laid down, she laid down with him. Not long after that, you could see her confidence start to grow, like she finally felt settled and like she belonged. Watching that happen was one of those reminders that animals take care of each other in ways we don’t always expect.
And as much as he looked after the herd, he had his way of connecting with us too. He was sweet with us, and he had moments where he’d really lean into the love. He would let us give him scratches on his hips and butt, and when he liked it, his whole head would lift and he’d do that little chatter that made everyone smile. Those moments felt earned, and they were always worth it.
Of course, he also had his routines and his favorite spots, which is how we all got to know him so well. In the summer, he loved the warm compost pile. He’d climb up there and sit and look out over everything like he was keeping watch over his kingdom. Clover would sometimes join him up there, and it always felt like a little snapshot of how peaceful he was. His best buddy, Home Boy, was often nearby too, they were usually together. It was one of those everyday scenes that became “Mr. Johnsons” in a nutshell.
And then there was the fact that Mr. Johnsons was simply unforgettable to look at. He stood 7'3", even after losing some height when his feet collapsed, and the shearers used to joke we should enter him in the Guinness Book of World Records. But as big as he was, he was never intimidating. He was a gentle giant in the truest sense.
When we think about him now, what stays with us most is how much he mattered to the whole farm. The herd knew. They gathered, they were quiet, and it was clear he wasn’t just another animal out here. He was one of the special ones, the kind you don’t fully realize you rely on until you feel the space they leave behind.
We don’t want this to be a sad post. We just want to say how grateful we are that he got to spend his years here being cared for, soaking up sunshine, walking at his own pace, and doing what he always did best: quietly looking after everyone else.
We’ll miss you, Mr. Johnsons. Thanks for being such a steady, sweet presence on this farm.
