The more things change

Another broken leg, same me

Last weekend, my Aunt came to town. She's my deceased Dad's older sister, and I hadn't seen her since his funeral over four years ago. We told stories, ate delicious food, drank wine, and then told more stories. I don’t think either of us realized how much we needed it.

Of course, like all things here on a little urban farm, something had to go off the rails - something always goes off the rails. We were milking the goats when I heard Cinnamon, our senior buck, let out a loud yell. I didn't really think anything of it; Cinny is in rut, which means he's constantly looking for the ladies. It's that time of year, and he's got a one-track mind and he isn’t quiet about it.

Welp, he had tried to use his hay feeder as a stepstool to jump the fence to get to the girls. In doing so, he caught and broke his back leg. Of course.

So, I was trying to spend time with my Aunt and had to call the vet to come down. I couldn't tell just how bad the break was, but I worried the vet was coming for Cinny's final appointment.

My Aunt asked me if the prospect of putting Cinnamon down made me sad. "Well, yes, but this is the way it sometimes goes," I told her, trying to tap the stoic well inside.

I tried to be rational; Cinnamon has already bred his girls for the season, so we'll have another crop of fabulous babies out of him. If he can't put any weight on his back leg, he'll never again be able to do his one job. It's unfair to keep a boy through the winter if he doesn't have a good chance of a full recovery. I tried to steel myself for the bad news.

I called my goat friend, Tiffany, and tried to calculate precisely how much Cinnamon is worth. He has his milk star, and his dad is a finished show champion, so he's got great genes - BUT, I already have his full sister, two of his daughters, and another crop on the way next spring. He's starting to breed out here. It feels weird to try to put a dollar value on our animals, but when we're talking about livestock, we have to know how far we're willing to go with each.

This stands in sharp contrast to the last time I had a buck break his leg. Our first buck, Patches, broke a leg as well several years ago. I was very pregnant at that time with our younger son and didn't yet have a vet who would travel to us. I also knew that my husband, Mark, would not be in favor of a major vet bill for a goat while we were expecting.

So, I did what any reasonable emotional pregnant lady would do in my situation, I stuffed a broken-legged goat into the back of my SUV and took him and my infant son to our dog vet. Only after Patches was sedated and on the x-ray table of a suburban veterinary office did I call my husband to let him know what was happening. With all the baby vet techs taking photos of him for their Snapchats, it was too late NOT to save Patches at that point.

Luckily for me (and my marriage), I can't remember the insane size of Patches' medical bill - but I know it was probably many times what he was worth. But, as a newly-minted urban farmer, I can be forgiven for making some rookie emotional decisions. However, now that I've been at this for a few years, I can't afford to keep making irrational calls over and over. Having goats isn't a money-making endeavor, but I also can't treat every one of them as a pet.

Cinnamon's care would have to be a business decision.

After talking through his worth with my friend Tiffany, we agreed that if Cinnamon only needed a splinting and eventual cast, it would be worth it. But, if he needed surgery or wasn't expected to recover fully, it would be the end of the road.

So, while my Aunt watched through the fence, the vet knocked Cinnamon out and started to feel the break. It wasn't on a growth plate (yay), but he had a little cut on the leg that could get the bone infected (yikes), but also, with some strong antibiotics and a little luck, he could fully recover (yay!) It was not his final appointment; we decided to splint it for a week to set and see how he was looking.

I felt like the cinderblock sitting on my chest was lifted off. My stoic facade melted away as I stroked Cinnamon's head while the vet worked. All my big talk about being fine either way and making a rational business decision was just that - big talk.

As I pet the unconscious goat, I thought about the day he was born. His tongue was too big for his mouth, so it hung out at awkward angles. I remembered all the hugs and snuggles.

Earlier this year, Cinny was off at another farm, servicing some other does, and a coyote came into the pen. Being the protector he is, he stomped that coyote - saving his ladies in the process. He's something special.

As if to put a fine point on it, Cinny threw up all over me as he woke up from the anesthesia while my Aunt watched from the fence.

Another broken leg and so many goat lessons in between, but I'm still the same softie in the middle I was when we started.