Memento Mori

Today was surreal. Well, obviously that is an understatement. When you can honestly say that something was surreal or sublime, it just means that you have no other words to describe what is going on, or what has happened. Like the birth of your first child on a blue moon solar eclipse amidst coyotes howling and the first summer rainstorm... amazing? bewildering? enlightening? What little justice words can do in such a situation. Today wasn't quite on par with the birth of our Atalaya. However, today was, and is, a considerable milestone in mine and Nicole's collective story.
This morning was like any Saturday morning. We made coffee, ate toast with coconut oil and almond butter, while listening to talk radio and playing with Atalaya. Nicole had to be at a demo by 10am and we were pretty rushed, as usual, to get out the door. In our current care-taking situation, we are responsible for two goats, Freddie and Horace, a horse, Corazon, and eight chickens. Well, Freddie hasn't been feeling well since Thursday and today Ginger, the owner of this property and a really kind-hearted lady, decided it was time to call in the goat vet.
HJ Harlen arrived in the afternoon. She looked like a slightly modernized version of Jane from Deadwood. Rough and rugged, and no non-sense. She got out of her super-sized pick up truck, leaving her desert dog in the front seat to watch us through the passenger window.
She had a tackle box and a few random instruments in her hand, tools of trade.
Nicole was running late for the demo so I stayed behind to assist the vet while she went into town.
The first thing the vet did was to feel for Freddie's penis. She said she thought he may have ruptured his bladder and if so she would have to draw out his penis and see if she could remove any stones. For this process I would have to sit on a wooden box in the stable and hold a 200 pound billy goat in my lap while she inspected his genitals.
When I couldn't quite hold him or keep his horns from flailing, she said, " you aren't a farm boy are you?" "Not exactly." I replied.
So here I am in a horse corral, with a giant goat on my lap and a rugged western female vet-- right out of Northern Exposure, the South west version, telling me to "hold him still," keep his head up," all while she is injecting him with sedative and discussing the possibility that "he might not make it."
Within an hour she finally decided that there was nothing she could do, and that Freddie, the nicest and most humble goat you will ever meet... would have to be put to sleep.
I called Nicole and told her the bad news. She left the demo and headed back.
By the time she arrived, I was holding Freddie's horns, while HJ Harlen was administering her third injection of Phenobarbital into Freddie's neck. As Freddie fell from my arms, I saw Nicole, standing in the sun between us and the barn, her black dress flowing, clutching a single sunflower... crying. Freddie was gone. Like that.
An hour or two later, Bob, the gentlemen down the road, with the earth moving equipment and forklifts, came to put Freddie's lifeless vessel into a flat bed pick-up truck, and spirit it away to be buried.
Later that after noon, following hours of mourning Freddie, Nicole and I, decided to take a walk through the arroyo and reflect, while hunting for arrowheads. Atalaya slept through the entire walk, and all we found were coyote droppings, and a few pointed stones, questionable at best.
While closing down the barn for the night, bringing all the chickens in and feeding Horace and Corazon, we were excited to find that the chickens had laid three beautiful eggs. We decided to take them to Ginger and once again offer our condolences. She invited us in, and popped the cork on a perfectly chilled bottle of Gruet. We talked of life and death, Nicole told the story of how the previous day while in the barn, Freddie, who wasn't well, had come up to her and Atalaya and gave them a few gentle head bumps. A friendly goat gesture that probably meant something like, "thank you, I appreciate the attention and food that you have given me in the short time I have known you. I will be leaving soon, and well... thanks." The goat bumps had made Atalaya laugh.
We have only been here for a few weeks, and I know there are so many lessons to be learned, but this is undoubtedly a defining moment of our stay out here in Lone Butte, 14 miles from Santa Fe, but a galaxy away.
Today I learned about goats, about life and its fragility. I mean, a goat, a hardy, boot eating, mountain climbing, rough and rugged son of a gun, just didn't drink enough water, got a stone, burst a bladder, and is dead. Like that.
Aren't we all this fragile? We feel so invincible, driving down the freeway, walking across a busy intersection, sleeping through the night. We never know when...
I wish I would've spent more time with Freddie. I feel sorry for Horace, Freddie's goat brother. I feel sorry for Ginger who loved that goat and who must feel, as I do, how temporary life is. Ginger, who is in her 70's, away from her children, who are scattered all over the place, from LA to Italy, and who is closer, in years, to the end of her life than we are.
Be it a blockage, busted bladder or automotive disaster... we all must go. And it really makes you stop and consider how lucky we are to be here. To be with those we love, with friends, horses, chickens and goats.
Today a goat died in my arms. It's spirit departed, it's head and horns fell like bricks. Today was surreal and splendid, because it shocked me back into myself, back into my spirit. Rest in Peace Freddie.