I Love Moo: Tales From A N.Y. Animal Sanctuary

Despite its sumptuous setting and priceless views of lake and land, the Watkins Glen property is hardly glamorous. The three red overnight cabins each contain a pair of bouncy beds that sleep two apiece, framed photos of animals and a wicker lounge set. No TV, phone or iPod docking station. The bathrooms are in a separate building called the People Barn. (At night, to reach the facilities, I had to skirt frogs positioned like kitschy garden sculptures along the path.)

The overnight accommodations, breakfast room/library, small exhibit hall and gift shop crouch on the edge of the property. The real scene takes place on the undulating farmland that nearly nudges the horizon and inside the archetypal red barns, one per species. Most of the animals are kept inside spacious barns and fields, though on rare occasions the turkeys are let out to socialize. (Watch for Sullivan, who behaves like a lap dog.)

"They're like ambassadors of their species," said Adam Weitzenfeld, a 23-year-oldintern from Chicago who was spending three months volunteering here. "Where else can you see a factory farm animal that isn't on your plate?"

No surprise, the breakfasts are vegan.

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The Finger Lakes region is a thick quilt of green patches, with cutouts of deep blue and a crosshatching of spindly grape plants that attract vineyard-hoppers. Farm Sanctuary is about 10 miles from Watkins Glen, but it feels much more isolated. Here, the deer stop and stare at you.

After 5 p.m., the barns are closed to the public, so I spent dusk rambling around the fringes of the property. I walked along the periphery of the cow pasture, crossed over a muddy field (the pigs' playpen?) and landed in front of a chicken enclosure. I watched them peck and claw the dirt, then moved on. Sorry, I don't really connect with chickens.

The sheep, though, were storybook characters, gamboling and baaa-ing as if they were trying out for Little Bo Peep. The 14 ewes had arrived pregnant, and many had recently given birth. One mischievous lamb was so small it squeezed through the gate and appeared before my feet.

Most likely, the lamb would have been safe; there is little traffic along the road and few predators. (An intern eventually showed up to help.) Turkey and deer, however, need to watch their backs. Ironically, Farm Sanctuary borders a recreation area that allows hunting. As I walked to the top of the road to watch the sky turn pastel, I heard gunshots ring out. I hoped the wild fowl were smart enough to take cover.

The farm reopened the next morning at 8, and after a simple breakfast of fruit, pastries and bagels with non-dairy butter and jam, our group met for a private tour. (B&B guests have their own tour at 10 a.m.; public tours follow.)

As we ventured into the cow pasture, sloppy from a previous day's rain, I starting chatting with Mike and Sherry Depsky of Philadelphia. The couple were married here four years ago, and they honeymooned at Best Friends, a sanctuary in Utah. After countless visits, they knew the animals' histories as if they were family members'. "We like the interaction with the animals," said Sherry, who works as a nanny and dog-walker. "We've been on the tour maybe 30 times."

During the hour, Pichaud led us into the tidy structures and explained the plight of each group: ducks and geese destined to become foie gras; rabbits raised for meat; turkeys marked for Thanksgiving dinner. At times, she would point out an animal and tell its story.

"Malcolm and 40 other pigs were abandoned for days in the sun, with no food or water," she explained as we stood amid hogs lounging like fat pashas in hay. "They were found in a triple-decker livestock trailer in D.C." As if on cue, a piglet named Andy waddled over and begged for a belly rub.

Despite the emotional pull, the employees did not proselytize. In the cabins, a welcome note asks guests to refrain from eating animal products while visiting. It was hard, though, to not be moved. So while the other guests headed off to sip grapes at local wineries, I decided to grab a shovel and help out. I was assigned chicken duty. Dirty work, I know, but necessary.

During my stint, I scooped up hay, picked up eggs, threw down new hay and built nests in the hens' cubicles. Sometimes a chicken would inadvertently help, kicking a bit of straw my way. The work was not heroic, but it was satisfying knowing that I was making their lives a bit more comfortable.