The Story of a Goat

Once upon a time, a baby goat was born. He was born in the middle of the night, in the middle of a field, with all his aunts and uncles and protectors around. 

But sometimes new goat mamas don’t really understand what’s going on, and if someone (like a really excited puppy) gets to the baby first to clean him off, she will decide she doesn’t like him anymore. 

So the farmers (who woke up and came out into the field when they heard new baby cries) scooped him up and said, “Don’t worry, little boy. You’re safe now, and we’ll keep you warm and fed.” 

So the farmers named him Adrien and brought him into the house to live with them for a little while. 

Adrien LOVED the house. He made friends with the indoor cats, and eventually a little pig. 

Adrien grew and grew and got stronger and stronger. Then, one day, he went outside with the farmers to play. There, he met his mother, Chestnut. Chestnut was confused. “Where did this baby come from, and why does he like me?” 

The farmers began catching Chestnut every morning and night to feed Adrien directly from his mama. And slowly, Chestnut warmed up. 

One day, when Adrien came out to play, Chestnut went up to him, and gave him a little love nudge. Adrien was THRILLED. His mama liked him again! 

Just to make sure, the farmers watched carefully to make sure that he was getting enough food and was staying healthy. But Chestnut had accepted him fully and decided that he didn’t need to go back in the house. 

The farmers were sad at first, but knew it was for the best. Plus, Adrien was forever grateful to them for being his mama when his didn’t want them, so he still made sure to come and say hi anytime they came out. 

And everyone is happy. 

The end. 

The Reality of Farm Life.

(I wrote this piece last weekend and debated even posting it all week. It still makes me tear up. But, after running it by a few close friends, I realized that the emotion in farming isn’t really talked about and that it’s a conversation I want to start.)

We lost a baby kid today. 

Even typing those words sends tears down my cheeks. As I sit on the couch, him on my lap, it's hard to believe that he's gone. I don't want to believe it. 

The truth of the matter is that we couldn't have saved him. He was too cold, dehydrated and starved. His mother had been clogged and rejected him in her pain, so he didn't get a chance to even taste her life-giving milk until we took him inside in one last effort to change the inevitable. 

I named him Bruce, because he tried fighting to live, he really did. I told him as I held him that if he fought through this, he'd need a big strong name to get him through life. He gave a tiny bleat in reply. 

The reality of farm life is that animals die. For someone like me who pours my heart and soul into them, it's incredibly difficult. We'll do everything possible to save them, and when it can't be stopped, we'll sit and hold them as they draw their final breath. Bruce was our sixth kid born on the farm and the third born this week. He was the first, and only one, to not make it. 

But just like death is the reality of life on a farm, there’s also a picture of grace. Because in the moments that Bruce was succumbing, another baby made its way into the world. 

Little Billy was born moments before Bruce passed.