Dexter

Dexter died.

I was just taking Benji upstairs to put him in the bath when Rich came in from the barn.

“I need you to come outside,” he said.

“But I’m just…” I looked at his face. “Now?”

“Now.”

I asked the girls to finish putting Benji to bed, and followed Rich. He grabbed his rifle on the way out – never a good sign.

We went out to the barn and I was shocked to see Dexter laying flat on the floor of his stall, panting and groaning. He was unconscious, and it was clear that he was in unbearable pain.

He had been sick that morning, off his feed – and it was a rare morning when he didn’t come charging up to get his bowl of concentrate. He was sleek and loved his food. I had gone in to look him over – we were keeping him inside most days, so that he didn’t bully the goats who didn’t have horns – and we had just had a phone call from some people who wanted him.

We couldn’t keep him, but figured as fat, sassy and affectionate as he was, he would make a great companion goat for someone. Sure enough, these people had lost a goat, and their remaining one was pining. (You can never have just one goat – they’re herd animals, need company!) They sounded perfect – knowledgeable, experienced goat keepers, with a goat already on hand. They were just trying to sort out a trailer. So we were looking forward to placing Dexter in a good home.

I phoned Rich and told him that Dexter wasn’t looking well, and that I thought he should have a jab of penicillin just in case. I wasn’t up to administering the shot, so Rich said he would do it as soon as he got home.

Which he did.

But now, just a few hours later, Dexter was obviously dying. Whatever he had, had taken him from glossy show condition to death’s door in an unbelievably short time.

His suffering was horrible to hear.

“Shoot him.” I said.

Rich went inside the stall, gently put the rifle to Dester’s head and pulled the trigger. I’ve seen this a few times now – the shot, the blossom of bright red blood, the kicking feet. It’s always been lambs that we were going to eat, or billy goat kids that we had to put down. Not a big, healthy adult animal like Dexter.

I cried, and Rich held me and patted my shoulder. Then I wiped my eyes and went to find a wheelbarrow. We loaded Dexter into it, his head lolling horribly over the side, and wheeled him up to the gate. We covered him with a tarp, and came inside where I phoned the knacker man.

I was grateful, for one brief moment, that Dexter wasn’t decomposing. The last time Rich and I handled a dead body, it was a sheep that had been dead for two days, and had turned a horrendous green and purple color, its entire head destroyed by maggots. We loaded it onto a tarp, and pulled it up to the gate with the quad bike. I vomited three times, and even Rich was faintly green. The smell lingered for days.

I guess I’ve come a long way since my days in the city when death was just a concept, and not something practical that you roll up your sleeves and deal with…

My friend Lynn reckons that it sounds like Dexter ate some laburnum. Horribly poisonous to goats, and fast-acting. We do have two laburnum trees, and I guess we’ve just been lucky so far. The trees will have to come out…

Poor Dexter.