But I think we have to play our part too

In the milking parlour I read the words on the sack of goat food. History.

And the obstacles she and her mother, Wisp, overcame you can find out about this in “Jews Milk Goats” pages 116 onwards

Milking, cheesemaking, grooming, trimming their hooves, annual testing for CAE (and the trauma that led to one year – all in the book), finding them mates and welcoming their offspring. The rewards are intelligent, domesticated animals who bring us great joy as well as some sadness. That’s life. Farewell “Baby”.

Elegy for “Baby”

I loved that little goat

She was beautiful and soft and playful

We nursed her through her first weeks of life

Unsure if she would survive the septic arthritis

Which made her limp 

With pain and swelling of her knee joint

Her mother, Wisp, could not feed her

So we fed her from a bottle

She wasn’t the best feeder

But she improved over time

We gave her anti-inflammatory injections

And antibiotics too

The vet wasn’t hopeful and nor was I

But she survived and thrived

And we loved her

Really loved her 

The smell of her

The look of her

The feel of her

This morning when I was in the milking parlour

Willow attached to the milking machine

Baby playfully pushed open the door

I closed it

She jumped against it and opened it again

I closed and locked it

“Clever Baby” I called to her

Then I went to London

Returning just after 3 pm

I went outside after downing a cup of tea

And changing into working clothes

I went to see the goats

Three of them were at the fence

I didn’t look for baby

She often played away from the adults

Sometimes on the climbing frame

Sometimes on the woodpile

At 5.30 J and I went to put the animals away

We started in the paddock as usual

Then I saw her

Hanging from the climbing ropes

On the childrens climbing frame

Neck stuck in twisted knots

I screamed

“Jeremy”

He came running

I ran to the milking parlour for scissors

We cut her down

“I think she’s gone” he said

But she was so warm and soft and vital

Yet floppy and not breathing

Her pupils were black with death

I gave her the kiss of life

She did not respond

Jeremy pumped her warm body 

Hoping that the heart would flicker into life

He put his lips to hers

We tried again and again

Scarcely able to accept what we knew

That she had died

Such a beautiful, perfect “Baby”

We both loved her

Jeremy carried her to the milking parlour

And laid her on a bale of straw

I stroked and kissed her

Again and again

I knew she was dead but

I waited for a miracle

So perfect, so beautiful and that gorgeous smell

Of “Baby”

Our fault

A crazy, freak accident

Forgive us “Baby” for your last terrifying moments

I hope you blacked out quickly

I will never forgive myself

For your loss

I returned to find a birthday gift from my dear friend in Sweden. She has always been an ace present giver. She gave me a woollen blanket for my 40th birthday and it is still keeping my knees and legs warm when I sit reading or watching television during long winter evenings

The spring flowers are glorious

Blackthorn (the wild plum tree which produces sloes) flowers before it has leaves. Hawthorn blossoms later after its leaves appear. Both are beautiful.

We were wrong. She wants to join her friends in the big duck pond so I carried her there this morning

I’ve been watching Tufty chasing Domino around the field as well as Pinky over the last few days. Today he’s chasing Little Miss Pretty. Will we have a second round of summer lambs?

Know that she failed to thrive and only lived for a few weeks. She was loved and cared for and we planted a pear tree (above) in her honour.

The temperature has dropped and I wore gloves this morning and still my fingers are cold. They tingle as I return indoors as the blood rushes back into my hands. I’m going out again to milk the goats.