An extra helping of Lurve

This morning, while the girls and I were still sleeping, Jeremy went out to “do the deed” because the little baby goat is not getting any better.  We don’t own any guns, not even for slaughtering purposes – so he had to either slit its throat or club it.  He thought clubbing it would be less messy, but… he just couldn’t do it.  Especially with the mama standing there watching, all hopeful, which she does every time we check on her.  Talk about guilt.  So he thought awhile.  Then he helped the goat up, “wheelbarrow style” and wouldn’t you know – the little goat can get around that way.  Nursed and everything.  But neither of us can spend our days wheelbarrowing a little goat around, so Jeremy decided he’s going to build the goat a wheelchair.  You know, like those dog ones.

When he came in and told me, I was overcome with such a feeling of love for him.  Extra, new love.  It seems like, every time I’ve got him all neatly compressed in his appointed pigeon hole, he surprises me.  If you know me at all, you know I am a bleeding heart.  And if you’re Jeremy, you’ve grown accustomed to doing all the icky “ranch things” MY way.  Which is to say, with the utmost respect and love for living things.  And for those of you who don’t know this – that is NOT the standard.  That it was Jeremy, not me, who thought it would be a good idea to put a goat in a wheelchair?  I can’t even explain how it makes me feel. 

I googled “dog wheelchairs” – did you know they are really freaking expensive?  I found this on e-bay, and it is made out of PVC PIPE and STRAPS, which, being plumbers, we’ve got a little bit of that stuff hanging around.  Jeremy’s going to work on making a prototype this afternoon.



So.  No, that little goat is never going to make us any money -never be sold, never going to breed.  It’s going to just live out its days here, and we’re going to be perfectly happy about that.