Not long after I wrote the last “Hole” post, I went to do a goat check and she was lying down. I couldn’t tempt her to get up so I brought her a drink & some fresh weeds. When we went back out later to do evening barn chores, she hadn’t moved.
Everyone was clipped to their respective feeding station and was fed. Nettie didn’t budge so I brought her a big ol’ bowl of grain and sun flower seeds and a bucket of cool water. During her downhill slide, she never lost her appetite. But now her appetite was going to do her in. A goat that eats and drinks but doesn’t get up to move around is going to bloat. And bloat is a horrible way to go.After several attempts to try get to get Nettie up of her own volition, I admitted to myself that this was the end.
We kept the other goats clipped so she could eat her meal in peace. Paul, Rhiannon and I spent some time with her, talking to her, petting her, feeding her vanilla wafers. I know that her body was pretty much beyond saving, but the thing that was so sad is that SHE was still there. You could see it in her eyes. She was mentally aware; her gaze followed us around but her body was unable to do so.She was buried behind our house along with an offering of dock, plantain and wildflowers. Her daughter, Annette, is still with us, but she isn’t much consolation (sorry Annette, truth hurts). I will always remember my first goat, Nettie. Bringing her home in the back seat of the car (yelling the entire way, of course), being there for her (and my) first kidding and being there for her final moments on this earth.