I was asked what brought about this tragedy on Facebook, so I thought I’d post it here for my weekly post.

                                                                                            


Well, Stella, our older milking goat, visited her “friend” for a few weeks to produce (ahem) a baby goat.  Upon Ron bringing her back from her stud muffin, her udder was hard and she didn’t seem quite well.  After taking much care of her, she seemed to be getting worse and worse, not getting up to eat, etc.  As a last resort, Ron used an old remedy used with cows for upset stomach – a can of beer given to us by our thoughtful rumspringa neighbors who dumped an almost empty box of Bud Light in our yard a few weeks ago.  We were waiting, of course, for a good reason to pop the tab, and despite the medicinal purpose of beer, it did not help.

Today, upon walking into the barn, Ron found Stella dead.  Gone.  Upon asking for my assistance to help him scoop her up on the Ford tractor to bury in the “farm grave yard”, I gently reminded him he now had a son, Andrew, who was as tall and as strong as I am.  In response to Andrew’s protest, we had a “heighth off” and Andrew won, though he’s a lightweight (how I’d love to be 105 again!).

So, on this Thanksgiving eve, we have christened my son to official farm boy duty (making the farmwife happy), and wish the best to Stella, our faithful goat.  May she RIP.

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