If you follow our story, you will know the phrase, "Life turns on a dime." One moment all is well, and then just that quickly your life is turned upside down. I had bought a 20-pound box of blueberries yesterday, so Emily was baking a cobbler after supper, Mike was mowing and Megan and I took the goats down to the weeds on their leashes for an evening snack. What happened was completely my fault. I knew there were wild black raspberries in the woods, and so I decided to walk down and pick a few, leaving Megan with the goats, in less than their usual amount of supervision (the one person per goat rule). When a bee startled the boys and the leashes got tangled, I didn't hear Megan's cries over the tractor, and by the time I got back to them (having only found 14 berries), Elliot was hunched against the bank with a wild look in his eyes, obviously injured. While Megan led Emerson back to the house, I scooped up Ellie (all 30-40 pounds of him) and carried him up to the deck. As the cobbler burned in the oven, we examined a now-terrified goat who would only put full weight on two legs. His front right foot was swollen and he guarded the back left. His eyes were glazed, his breathing harsh. Although you may think goats are hardy mountain-dwellers, what all the books tell you is that goats are actually incredibly fragile. All sorts of things can kill a goat - a change in diet, a change in the weather, leaves from fruit trees, moldy hay, stress... what to do? How to calm him? We don't even really have a goat vet. I could whisk him down the road a mile to our small-animal vet and pretend he's a dog...call the emergency "meat-animal" vet, a quick Google search gave instructions on casting a broken leg yourself...Emily is holding Ellie as frisky Emerson chews my shirt and leaps around, oblivious to his brother's suffering. Thoughts cascade through my mind like crashing waves. How can we rehabilitate a two-legged goat? How can we stop his pain? Could I get an aspirin in him? Will he survive this? I swear I will never eat a raspberry again...
As tense moments pass, Ellie calms somewhat lying next to Emily. His breathing slows, then normalizes. Eventually he takes a sip of water from the bowl. We decide to let him rest for the night on an improvised mat in his familiar surroundings outside and see what morning brings. I can cancel my Tuesday plans and take him to a vet somewhere. He sleeps on the deck until dark, then we carry him down to the yard, leaving him on his mat next to the food bowl. Emerson snuggles beside him. Rest well, goaties.
It was barely light when I awoke, full of trepidation as I looked out my window. No goats on the mat. I have to go to another window to see the whole yard, and there they are - two goats sleeping on the roof of the Tupperware house (which is their favorite fair-weather sleeping place). Unless Emerson is stronger than I imagine and has lifted his brother up there, it means Ellie has jumped...and as I lean against the window and they hear me (did I ever mention goats have supersonic hearing?), they both leap from the roof and tear down to the gate, ready for the day. (Oh, were you planning to go back to bed?) Ellie has no trace of a limp, frisking around and dancing as always. The swelling is gone. All is again right with the world (but I don't think we'll ever use the leashes again). And I do believe in miracles.
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