All but one of the goats in my compound have died, and the little guy still hanging on seems to be dying a more painful death right at my front door. I heard him before I saw him this morning, lying in the dirt and foaming at the mouth (no, it’s not rabies).
Each time I left the compound I expected to come back and find he’d given up the fight. When it rained today he went under the shade structure, but he got kicked out after the rain stopped and it was really pathetic to see him stumbling away. Nobody wants to look at the sick goat.
He surprised us all by rallying before dinner, and what do you know but he tripped through my front door. I couldn’t turn him away - he’s sick. Oddly enough, now that he’s dying he’s become affectionate, lying his little head in my lap and breathing his sickly foam all over my skirt and bed sheets. If I was doing something else he would squeeze himself between the head of my bed and the wall, waiting for me to come pet him again.
I don’t know what to do. Sleeping with a sick goat at my head might not be a bad idea per se, but it doesn’t sound like a good one either. I think I’ll wash my sheets tomorrow…
Update:
Two days have passed and the goat, whom I have since named Guthrie, died today. Everyone noticed the interest I took in him, so they were sure to leave his body lying at my front door so I could see for myself. That made me think the unkind thought that I had developed more affection for Guthrie than any actual person I’ve met so far here.
I’ve got to go bleach the cup I’ve been letting him drink out of. If he hadn’t been caked in feces I would have let him die in my room, now I wish I had. At least my room still smells like him.
P.S. The name Guthrie was an effort to pay homage to Julie’s pet Alice, a goat who never wanted my attention. The only Alice reference I could think of was Alice’s Restaurant (where Grayson took me to breakfast) in the Arlo Guthrie song. So there you go.
