hank.

hank was such a fine goat. the brown markings on his face split

by a streak of white, as if a steady stream of milk ran from his chin to his neck.

he was strong. and muscular. but so gentle.

right before he died, he took a liking to loretta, one of the older girls in the
pasture. of course, hank was a wether, so his affection was platonic in the most

goatie of ways. they grazed together, and she followed him around

at sunset, waiting to see where he would settle as night fell.

loretta is an outcast, and hank was the only goat she ever warmed to.
she will miss him, too. just as we do.

postscript:

as is often the case here at oakhaven farm, people who pass the pasture daily notice when something is different. about a month after hank died, a neighbor stopped us as we were taking an evening walk. she was driving a minivan, and paused in the middle of the road, rolling her window down and calling us over to the car. "what happened to hank?" she asked.

i told her hank had died, then i realized her three children were in the back seat.

she turned around, without missing a beat, and said to her three young ones: "hank is in heaven."

i like that thought. hank and gypsy in heaven. i'm going with it.