Losing goats is difficult. It doesn't matter if the death is expected, unexpected, or even assisted in order to end suffering.
This part of farm life is something that we must be able to handle or we are in the wrong "field".
When a farmer becomes callous to such things, they have no heart. This doesn't mean we cry over every loss. There are times we just have no time for physical tears, but our hearts ache tremendously.
This week, in two days, we lost three goats to a mysterious ailment. The most painful part about this is the fact a proper burial was not able to be done. Winter is cruel.
So our precious little buckling, Hickory Hill Woodstock, is gone.
Little Grady, our beautiful wether, he is gone.
And our herd sire, Waterloo Pond T Galveston, gone.
All these without knowing what killed them.
We can't turn back time and do things differently and really, there isn't much we could have done...it was silent, symptomless, and hidden.
But in the memory of animals who served us well, we look to the care of the remaining living creatures who could quite possibly face the same death if we just sit idly by, doing nothing.