Days Gone By...

Sometimes I have to scroll through last year's photos, reminders of the days when all was right in our goat world, when our biggest challenges were learning how to master routine hoof trimming and building a shed. Those were the days when I jokingly lamented about mountains of droppings to sweep up and goat spit on my clothing, as if such were the key challenges faced by goat owners. These were days of blissful innocence - ignorance, really - before we learned the hard lessons of goating. We thought that being "banded" (aka neutered) and having horn scurs burned off were the absolute worst things to befall our babies. We were so wrong.

New to goats, we were unaware of the incalculable threat of urinary calculi, a wicked malady which strikes male goats - sudden, painful, and usually fatal. Emerson was lucky. And not a day passes that I don't stand outside and watch him "pee" - always alert for the insidious signs of a recurrence. Just as we didn't know how deadly those unseen mineral deposits could be, we never dreamed the havoc microscopic mites could wreak on our goats, our lives. We never guessed Em and Ellie would chew holes in their own flesh, desperate to rid themselves of the agonizing, burrowing parasites which defy all attempts at eradication.

This weekend I gave three injections to the goats. They hurt. We restrain Ellie to the fence and scrub dirt and fetid pus from the wounds in his feet while he cries. One of his dew claws was so badly damaged that it actually detached from his foot. I don't know the implications of this; for now I just re-apply a clean dressing each day and cover it with a baby sock. He kicks wildly to get away. My husband held him upside down while we picked scabs from his belly, then bathed him with hypoallergenic baby shampoo and betadine. We left his cone off for an hour - an optimistic trial - and he spent the whole time madly scratching and biting himself, refusing even a walk to his beloved "Field of Weeds." The cone is back on, and I look away when I see him struggling to find a comfortable sleeping position with his neck held stiffly by the plastic. I sit with him, but he moves away, mistrustful. Mine are hands which cause him pain. I blink back tears as he turns from me.

The only good news right now is that his brother, Emerson, is "cone-free" for two days and seems much improved. Not 100%, but better than before. I keep looking at him - he's been "coned" so long I forgot how adorable he really is. As for Elliot, we keep treating, we keep trying, we keep hoping. These are tough decisions. I guess nobody ever said goats are easy.

Actually, that's exactly what they said. Maybe some goats are. (Although, I doubt it.)