Our poor Tasha Tudor Goat has gotten herself into another fix. As near as we can tell, she made a leap over her pen, but must have got hung up. Her right hind leg is lame. She will not put any of her weight on it. She holds it curled tightly, up beneath her side. She eats. She drinks. She even moves about, either by hobbling along, or actually rolling over... particularly when she spies a nice crop of tempting grass. Just how does a goat manage to be hilarious, even when she is clearly in a great deal of pain?
She makes sad, dog-like whines and little plaintive grunts. Sounds we have never heard from either goat, before. They really strike a chord of sympathy, especially when she drops her head into my lap and lets out a long, sorrowful sigh.
I have felt both of her legs, comparing them, and I can detect no obvious breakage. There is no blood, or abrasions, the ligaments that are most distinct, at the place I think of as her ankles, feel to be intact. Awkward sentence? Sorry. I think life is filling my plate overly much, this week.
Ada does not make as many escape attempts as Tasha. Neither does she get herself into any of the other situations Tasha stumbles upon.
Ada is the vocal one. Tasha is the explorer.
While Tasha laments, while Ada frets, Betty indulges in the favorite treat of all the chicas... goat chow.
To make matters worse, our own dear vet feels ill equipped to help us with Tasha's predicament. He's more of a pups and kitties vet, so he has been referring me to other vets. Well, those other vets won't see a goat either.
I took it upon myself to do some research, and the most immediate thing I could do was to administer a dose of pain relief... two ibuprofen. Ever think about giving a goat pills? I thought it might be a challenge. I was wrong. There was no need to force it down, or tap her nose, hold her mouth shut. She took each tablet, and nonchalantly munched away at it like a peppermint. Good Goat.
She's finally stopped dragging herself from corner to corner, and she's settled on the chicken coop, near our broody little Zelda. Maybe this is where we'll have to tuck her in for the night. Oh, my. I don't think the chicas will take this as well, as Tasha took her medicine!
And then, what about Ada Dear? She may fret herself into a state. Poor darling.
So. Tomorrow. I hope something clever and good presents itself. Because. I have officially thrown my hand to my forehead, sighed deeply, and surrendered my worries to God. I will not give up, nor surrender, but I can see when I need help.