No sooner had our grief for Buddy eased to
bearable, than Mr J noticed Oreo wasn't acting right.
(Oreo got his name from the
big white 'O' on his belly.
As he grew, it became
more of a 'C'.)
Normally, Oreo is the leader of the pack; but on this day, the others were in the pasture while Oreo was standing alone behind their house. That never happens!
Goats have a tight herd. Even when Elvis played the loner, he was never more than 15 feet from the others. When the leader takes off for the woods, the others will stop drinking to follow. That's just their nature.
Oreo developed respiratory symptoms. I injected him with antibiotics for a few days, and those symptoms improved, but Oreo didn't. He grew weaker. We've been told that goats are a lot like chickens... when you notice they're sick, it's usually too late. That's proven true. We started with six goats. Lost one. Gained another. Lost two in one year. Now Oreo.
Oreo was probably Mr J's favorite goat.
He had a funny personality...
always first to investigate
(Whenever Sadie entered the gate,
the others would hide behind Oreo,
leaving him to determine the danger.)
This past Sunday, two-and-a-half weeks after we buried Buddy, we buried Oreo.
His grave is next to Willie's.
Rest in peace, Oreo. We miss you!