Such was Monday evening.
Our timid patriarch goat was ill, the vet was called.
We knew what was right.
While we waited, I sat next to Little Moo, stroking the thick black fur on his neck.
We talked about his long life at his farm and how he had blessed my life.
We listened to the lullaby he had heard at dusk a thousand times...
a leaf against the straw, the wind on the barn flaps, the coo from the silo.
Little Moo left us quietly & bravely...just as he had lived.
