Sunday Bloody Sunday
posted in General, Raising Goats, The Bad Stuff |I was supposed to go out to eat Sunday with Heath, but he called me on Saturday night to say he’d forgotten about a prior engagement. And it’s a good thing he canceled, because as it turned out, I couldn’t go anywhere on Sunday.
After I talked to Heath on the phone Saturday night, I went outside for a while, and heard Lucille bawling. I was pretty sure she was dying, because when I came up the lane at about 7:30 from mowing the ditch, she was still down in the pasture, standing motionless by the fence. It’s pretty dark at 7:30, and she should’ve been back to the barn with the rest of the goats quite some time ago. Lucille’s old, and she’s been acting quite listless for a couple months, so we’ve been looking for her to kick the bucket. When she didn’t come home to the barn that night, I pretty much figured that she’d be dead in the morning, because goats hate to be alone normally. But if they’re dying, they’ll usually wander off somewhere to be alone. And, yep, she was dead Sunday morning.
But I was also worried about Mary that Saturday night. Mary’s our ugliest goat, and my favorite. Man, is she feisty. As soon as she sees me walk out the front door, she starts her staccato bawling, and runs for the gate. We feed her in the milk house, and she knows the routine. She paws at the gate and bawls insistently. She’s like “Just let me out - I’ll find the food!”. She’s the smartest of the goats and has the most personality. And I was terribly worried about her. When I’d gone out to feed her on Saturday morning, she wasn’t her usual self. She didn’t bawl, or run to the gate. I had to bring her out of the pasture. In the milk barn, she usually hops right up and begins eating the feed. But she wouldn’t. So I guided her up, but she wouldn’t put her head through the feed hole. When I tried to nudge her, she acted like a terrified horse. So I put her back in the pasture. Then I noticed that she seemed disoriented, and her back legs were giving out from time to time. Right then I should’ve thrown her in the back of the truck and got her to the vet. But I didn’t. I’m not sure why. I guess I thought she’d come out of it. And by Saturday night she wasn’t any better, but she wasn’t any worse either.
So I got up Sunday morning, and sure enough Lucille was dead. So I was going to have to drag her about a quarter mile and bury her. She’s too heavy to pick up by myself, and I’m here alone this week. Then I went to check on Mary, and I felt like crying. She was on her side, which almost always means death is near. Goats rest on all fours, not their sides. The vet tells me that once they’re on their side, they’re probably not going to make it. Mary was out of it, apparently in some sort of coma or something, because she wasn’t bawling in pain. But she was convulsing, and had apparently been doing so most of the night. She had worn tracks in the ground with her back legs and head. I felt guilty and sad and horrible.
I called the guy we bought Mary from. He said there probably wasn’t much we could do for her. I got on the internet and looked up symptoms, and it sounded like Enterotoxemia. There’s a treatment for it, and Tractor Supply had some of the medicine, so I went out to the truck to head to town, even though it was probably too late. Got to the truck, and found out I had a flat tire. And since I’d just had one a couple days before, I had no spare. No way to get to town, everyone I know around here is at church, and Mary’s out there dying.
I called John, who owns the farm and the goats. He said it was probably too late for her, and since I couldn’t get any medicine, I should probably put her out of her misery by shooting her. So I got the gun and headed out there. But I couldn’t do it. I’ve never shot anything before, and I just couldn’t pull the trigger on Mary. I think if she’d been in obvious pain I might’ve been able to do it, but she wasn’t. But I still feel like my inability to shoot her was a moral failure.
Finally got hold of my friend Deb, and she came over after church. I borrowed her car to run my tire into town and pick up the medicine. A friend of hers who owns goats said she’s seen them come back from comas with this disease, so we thought it was worth a try. We gave her shots every couple hours, and kept giving her water. After they left, I stayed up with Mary until past midnight, giving her shots and water, but she never got better. Monday she was still breathing, so I took her to the vet and had her put down. He told me that had I brought her in Saturday, there was a slight chance that antibiotics could’ve saved Mary, but the odds were very bad. And he said that she couldn’t feel anything, so she wasn’t really suffering. She was just in a coma. I brought her home and buried her and Lucille together.
I really miss Mary. What makes it even worse is that we were finally getting some milk out of her. Last year we quit milking her because she only produced about 4 ounces a day. This year she was giving about 64 oz. a day. But even more than that, it’s her personality I’ll miss. She really was the life of the party among the goats. And she was so strong and full of life. On Thursday, as I let her out to feed her, I grabbed her collar to hold her back momentarily. She was so strong that I had to let go of her or she would’ve pulled me down running to the milk house. That much life and strength, and in less than two days she’s lying helpless on the ground. It’s hard to believe.
It seems strange and sad to open the door and not hear Mary’s machine gun voice demanding that I get over there and let her out to the food on the double.
RIP, Mary. We’re going to miss you.
