My alarm sounded at 5:30 a.m. Pre-coffee, I dressed and trudged to the barn to check on our goat patient Foxy Brown. Ney the donkey brayed in protest at seeing me so early in the day, while Vera Wang and Kate Spade eyed me quizzically over the goat protein pail. The rest of the herd greeted me with sleepy-eyed quests for food.
I was waiting for the coin toss: I would either be burying a goat at 5:45 or giving her electrolyte paste. Wonders never cease, and prayers are answered. There, in the barn, stood Foxy Brown. Tail still down (often a sign that a goat isn’t feeling well), she spotted me and moved in the other direction. I said, “well, that is progress, you’re running away!”
Leaving her to ponder her next move, I pitched two bales of hay into the feeders and missed one of them. Twenty goats pounced on that fallen bale. I lifted it, muttering, “get off of it ya turd-buckets” and pulled a rib muscle. Once I filled the feeders with hay, I took a square to Foxy Brown. Still a bit wobbly, she looked the opposite direction. I headed to the house, had Jim to slather generic mentholated cream on my back and went to the office.
Later in the day, Daddy checked on the herd and sent me a text, “Count 24. All look good”. It is always a good sign when someone counts the herd and tells you the correct number…unlike me as a child telling Daddy that we had between 14 and 16 calves. He took the average and knew that he only had 15 in that lot; yet I digress.
I returned the text with a photo and asked him to check for Foxy Brown specifically.
Apparently, the goat started talking to Daddy.😁
Jim checked her after work, and found her resting near her mother Sheri. I later went to check and found her hanging out, not letting me near her. She is on the mend: still a bit wobbly, but eating, drinking and staying close to the herd.
Raised By A Village 