Cricket passed Friday. Willow and I found her at evening chores;the the does were all riled up. Cricket was always tied last because she was at the bottom of the pecking order, always submissive, always going to her spot when it was her turn. Lately she had been lingering in the houses in the morning, but when it came to tie her that night, Willow said, "where's Cricket?" and found her stretched out on the icy ground.
She had been failing of late, picking at her extra helpings of grain, so I had been trying to prepare for the inevitable. She was such a good goat, that she died on the least inconvenient time possible-the evening before my only day off. Willow and I interred her against the rock wall in the upper pasture, since the ground is too frozen. The Firebird had a track meet that day. Cricket's daughter Anna and the other goats as well as her human friends are all mourning her loss