We’re planning to cull some goats.
We’ve been planning this for quite a long time, but lacked transportation to get them to the butcher. Also, I lacked the heart to shoot them myself, as we bottle-raised half of the ones we’re planning to cull. Luckily, however, a friend of a friend, who has been involved in on-farm butchery all of his life, has agreed to come over, dispatch the goats, and show us what to do with the carcasses. I’m not at all concerned about being able to butcher them once they’re dead; I’ve helped butcher a couple of deer and part of a cow, so I already know I’m not particularly squeamish about that part. While I’m not exactly looking forward to butcher day, I will be happy to reduce the herd to a more reasonable number to feed through the winter, and it will be a relief to just have it done. The prospect of those deaths are not particularly disturbing, somehow.
On the other hand, my poor old Foxy dog had to be put down yesterday. That death does disturb me, a great deal, actually. I am not ashamed to say I bawled like a child while the vet did his thing, but it was the only right thing to do. The tumor that we’d had removed in the spring recurred, and was much more aggressive; I first noticed it last Monday, and by Saturday night, it was the size of both my fists together, and was causing her leg to swell up. We went for one last walk in the sunshine on Saturday afternoon, and by late evening, she couldn’t get up unassisted. While I’m glad she’s not in pain, I will miss my girl for a very long time. I’d had her since 2003. The other house critters are still looking for her, and I set out food in her dish this morning…I guess it will take some time to adjust.
It’s funny how not all deaths are equal.