Licky was born to Pixie - all the way left - names Licorice, Marshmallow and Oreo make sense once you notice the baby goats' colors.

We liked the merry, curious little goat very much, and soon she became ours.

Returning back home from the balloons, everything looked normal at first glance, but on the second glance it was clear that Licky got worse again. During two days of my absence, her willingness to move out her hollowed dusty nest decreased. When I sat by her, she let me scratch her and pet, and she said that everything was alright, only she was very tired. Other goaties stood around us, some pushed in to be scratched as well, Freddy poked Licky with his nose, licked her and encouraged her to start moving normally again, but she did not feel up to it. I went to the house to fetch her gabapentin, and after that she rushed to dinner (that's when goaties get grain), and so I hoped that she only had a bad day. She looked better on Monday, only a bit slower, but on Tuesday it seemed to me same as on Sunday, despite persistent medication. So I loaded her on Wednesday morning with Lori and took them both to the vet. Lori has been suffering a phantom pregnancy and runs around with a swollen udder, already through two cycles, and I wanted her to get looked at as well.

Our kids experienced many beautiful moments at the stables.

Twilight and Licky welcome me after vacation.

We did not get an immediate appointment at the vet's, we had to wait until a window opens — I got assigned a horse box, but Licky almost disjointed my arms at shoulders as she pulled to a pasture on the veterinary property. I felt a bit like a fool, coming there with a goat that would not eat and move, who immediately runs at full speed and stuffs herself for a whole hour of waiting. After checking her out, the vet declared Licky's arthritis progressed and that indeed her hind legs and spine were affected, and muscle atrophy could be seen, as she moves less. And that the vet could not (besides the two painkillers already prescribed) offer any additional treatments. We were to prepare for the fact that this was the end — when a goatie has more bad than good days, and lives in pain, it would be better to end it. Licky reached eleven years in the spring, which is a geriatric age for a goat, and health complications in such case form a domino effect.

Rascally Licky always climbed on things.

Rascally Licky always climbed on things.

They did an ultrasound on Lori to make sure she was not pregnant, and then she got an injection of prostaglandin to restart her cycle, which should be checked again in two weeks, and we went home. Licky and Lori both seemed relatively content and alright, but nevertheless I began to investigate what now and how to potentially deal with a dead goatie. Theoretically we could bury her on our property, but on one hand it's a lot of work, and on the other hand there are coyotes and similar vermin, and it could turn into a problem. One cannot take an old goat, pumped full with medication, to a butcher, even if one wanted to. Then there is city dump, where for a certain fee they safely inter dead animals, which seemed quite undignified to me. Final option was a cremation, offered by one funeral service even for household pets.

Still I kept hoping that it would not happen, but on Thursday, when I tried to lure all goaties to pasture, Licky refused to get up again. Eventually she ventured out of the gate, sniffed a few blades of grass — and she lay down again. She refused both hay and grain in the evening, I forced gabapentin mixed with apple sauce down her throat with a syringe — she swallowed that rather eagerly. And since she licked herself, I tried to used the syringe to get some water into her — for she would not drink from a bowl, and I wondered whether she could be thirsty.

Christmas in Licky's style.

In spring of 2017 Licky gave birth to Blackberry and Starburst.

On Friday morning it became obvious there was no chance — Licky would not eat or drink, and I could not hear her rumen. Ruminants' stomach turns on approximately every thirty seconds, one can hear it — and Licky's was quiet. Sid was surprised that a goat can die "of stupid arthritis", but farm animals have their digestive and life functions closely linked to mobility, and in the moment they cannot move properly, it goes downhill with them. Omnivores and carnivores can crawl into a hideout and wait to recover, because they don't have to "always" eat, so they fast for a few days; herbivores don't share that luxury. All we could do was call the vet's about needing an appointment, urgently and the same day. They pushed it out to the end of their shift, which had the advantage that I still managed to visit my workplace and straighten up things there, and Lisa could get in from Laramie, for it was her who had begged us eleven years ago to adopt Licky, so she technically became her owner.

We drove to the vet's in full force — Sid was driving, since he had a feeling that neither I nor Lisa would be able to. Lisa and I were with Licky to the end. It was all very quiet and dignified, in the back yard of the veterinary clinic. Licky was very tired and I think that she, too, wished to end it all. Without functional digestion she was only looking to dying of hunger and thirst. The only thing I would want different is euthanasia at home. When we came back home without Licorice, other goats were very upset and had many questions, which I could not answer so that they would understand. Licky's daughters, Loreena and Enya, keep following me around and stay close. Freddy looks lost and confused, and even Twilight seems lonely, despite being surrounded by her three children and two grandchildren — but she has lived her whole live with Licky and I think that she misses her buddy.

In the year 2020 she had only one baby, Casper.

In fall of the same year she has endured with us a move across half of the continent to Wyoming.

I miss her too; for the first few days I felt moments of panic on pasture and when entering the shed — on a first glance I could see that one goat was missing, and the second that it took me to realize, who is missing and why, had always felt like a heart attack. I also sense that without Licky my goaties stay more at home — Licky was a very outdoor goat and she used to go out on her own; now there's no-one to take the herd out. Perhaps they're afraid? That they would vanish like she did? On the other hand, some things are simpler now — for a year and half, I had been medicating Licky every day, during last about a year I had to think continuously about Lick being slower, needing more time and room to eat, so I fed her in part separately, and I split boys and girls overnight so that Licky would not have to assert herself at the feeder against large wethers. Now I have to watch out more for Enya and Lori, for it's them who are the smallest goaties, but while they're healthy, I don't have to worry as much.

Already in Wyomingu she has born Loreena and Enya.

Our little herd (Licky all the way left).

Maybe you find this whole journal about a goat being excessive, but our goaties have been for us a certain life crossroads. For our children, who were bullied in school, the farm stables environment became an escape and sanctuary. Farm animals like horses and goats follow different patterns of behavior than predators (dogs, cats, humans) do — they submit to force and aggression, but afterwards avoid the aggressor, and definitely don't move a hoof to his advantage. Instead, they respect good leaders — those, who protect them (I used to routinely rescue Ned from noisy plastic bags and similar threats), those who know where good pasture is, fresh water, cool shade or warm shelter. It was a great contrast to the schoolyard jungle, where strongest or cleverest individual wins, one skilled in manipulating authorities. Back then, stables seemed to me a good counterpoint to school atmosphere — before we, after a few years, gave up on school altogether and moved children to home / virtual education.

Goaties entered our lives very abruptly, through being born in our and our children's presence. Since then we did not have to explain how kids come into the world. Similarly so with the role of parents — when our children saw, how happy Dixie was that someone else was cuddling her kiddies, and she could eat and drink in peace, they commented it that being a mom is horribly tiring. But they also noticed Pixie chase baby goats into a corner and stand before them in a defensive posture, when she felt that they were threatened. They watched Twilight rush forward onto a yappy dog, and saw the same Twilight graze peacefully under a gaze of a watchful shepherd dog. They also tested how much work it takes to care for an animal.

Licky was lately tormented by arthritis - that lifted front right hoof is no accident, she favored it a lot.

Toward the end she favored her whole body and lifted herself with difficulty.

I tried out for myself that although work on a homestead is surprisingly hard and tiring, I actually enjoy it. When I finish turning a compost over, that job is done and it's one that makes sense, has benefit and result. Grazing goaties represent a synonym of nirvana for me — and a symbolize that some things in this crazy world still remain in order.
It also demonstrated for me, how socialism or communism simply does not work. That was when we started a goat co-op at the stables, in which various participants expected that they would collectively own goaties for their amusement and joy, and "somebody else" would do the smelly hard work. Perhaps the most typical was bewilderment of one member, to whom it would not occur, to come and take care of the goats on Valentine's Day, although she was scheduled. She wouldn't just not show up; she did not even consider telling someone she would not, so that this other person could step in. It took me two whole years before I gave up on the whole experiment, and it was a great relief to know, on one hand that the goats would receive nothing unless I arrange or do it myself, but then on the other hand I would be sure that the necessary HAD BEEN done, and I could stop unnerving myself, whether some hussy can be bothered to show up and God-forbid move a finger, or consider it a personal offense having to touch a pitchfork.

Besides providing us a lesson in social dynamics, our goaties also participated in our move to Wyoming. When we bought our first home in 2002, we would have possibly accepted a condo as well. By the year 2020 it was obvious that we needed not just a house with a yard, but a house on a substantial PROPERTY, where goaties would fit. Even Sid, who has absolutely no agricultural aspirations, agrees that a larger space is nicer and more comfortable.

Licorice (March 15, 2015 - June 19, 2026).

We hope that she now roams those legendary green pastures of her youth.

Last but not least, my goaties and homestead in general, are for me something of a lifesaver. They are a reason to get out of bed even at times, when the getting up means ten minutes of exercise and mobilizing aching joints, when one feels like letting it all go and accepting a wheelchair and a life in medical offices and institutions, in care of muscular caregivers. This way, I simply must get up, and after I take care of basic feeding and walk on fresh air and see grass and trees and skies, I find that I can leave the wheelchair for later again. With my luck, instead of a cute hunk, I would be assigned Nurse Ratched as my caregiver, and so I rather take care of my goaties.

Licky was not a member of our family in the sense that she'd be sharing a table or bed with us, as it is often so with pet dogs. Licky was no pet or toy; she was a part of a functional system: goaties "mow" our property, produce milk and had we the heart to eat them, they'd be providing meat. Goaties have been affecting many of our decisions — from picking a place to move to, all the way to Lisa's study direction. Licky spent all her life with us, from a cute baby goat, through being a responsible mother and too-clever rascal who created mischief, to being a patient old goat. It makes no sense to feel tragic, she reached — for a goat — a blessed age. So I wanted to at least give her this memory.