Piggylo
This morning, I had a goat . . . an ancient goat — 16 1/2 years old. He’s started looking really ragged around the edges, as old men are wont to do, and I’d broached the subject with Farmerteen about the unlikelihood that he’d actually live forever. Piccolo (aka “Piggylo” aka “Piggy”) was older than Farmerteen, but still “giving her hell” every morning, butting his way to get grain and hay, and trying to eat her hair (it looks for all the world like the most luscious straw).
We don’t think he knew he was a goat. We think he was pretty sure he was a short alpaca.
When he moved here, he’d chase the alpacas up and down the hillside, bleating, “Wait up, guys,” and dropping some of the weight he’d put on in the flat field at his old home.
He loved saltines. He really loved all crackers, and he knew the sound of crinkling wrappers meant a yummy treat for him. If you didn’t get the cracker out soon enough, he’d paw at your leg, letting you know he knew, and that you’d better get on with it.
He went quickly, surrounded by the his fellow alpacas, and we buried him in a grove of trees this afternoon.
