Her heart stopped beating. I slowly pulled my hand off her chest and stepped away carefully to not disturb her eternal slumber. Although I made no sound, I could taste the tears on my lips.
”May” was one of approximately fifty goats on our family farm. For a 7 year old female, May was a typical goat in size and color. However, unlike the others, she stood patiently when I trimmed her hooves and administered oral medications. Unlike the others, she would seek affection – rubbing the sides of her face in my waist, or back and neck, if I was kneeling down. When my farm chores were done, I would often visit with her, letting her nuzzle while I stroked the back of her soft neck. For 7 years, she gave me love and I gave her love in return.
Just seventy-two hours earlier, May was enjoying life like any of the other goat. She grazed in the pasture, butted heads for grain, and shooed horse-flies with her tail. However, twenty-four hours later, during a routine afternoon watering, I found her lying on her right side in the large barn away from the other animals. She could not move and cried out when I tried to shift her onto her stomach. I was able to lift her head and she welcomed the water and ate the fresh tree leaves I gave her until my father and veterinarian arrived a few hours later.
Dr. Higgins completed his examination and proffered a diagnosis of deer parasites compromising the neurological system with a one-in-four chance of survival. Without hesitation, I begged my father to treat her and not to put her down. If May had any chance for a recovery, I did not want to take it from her. My father reluctantly agreed, and Dr. Higgins administered a series of injections. As a true believer in second chances, being May’s goat hospice became my full-time responsibility.
I now dedicated my life to saving hers. I offered May leaves and water every thirty minutes, and would bend down on the hay floor beside her for hours at a time. As the hours passed, she consumed less water and ate fewer leaves. She began to cry out intermittently. I could only stroke her neck as I had done hundreds of times before and whisper Beatles’ song in her ear. I had foolishly allowed my fear of death to convince me she would recover. May was sick, she was suffering, and she would die. I failed her.
I knew my father would put May down when Dr. Higgins arrived for a follow up visit later in the afternoon. Having acknowledged and confronted my fear of death, I was now able to reject it. I ran hugged May leaving my right hand on her heart as she drew her last breath. Her death was peaceful and compassionate.
May had been a special member of our little goat community and now she was gone. Her death taught me several lessons. First, doing all the right things and having the best of all intentions does not always guarantee a positive outcome. Cognizant of this I still realize my efforts were not worthless but welcomed. May probably appreciated me being there in the worst moments. It is different than just letting her suffer there by herself. Second, I now recognize my positivity as a more valuable asset in life. I now automatically act in the most positive, helpful way as possible. My experiences would make most people pessimistic about life. But I approach everything with optimism, which is what makes me who I am.
Still, I grieve for the sweet goat named May. I know she is gone but I look for her at every feeding and watering. My head hurts, my stomach hurts, and my mouth is dry. I can still taste the tears on my lips.
