Survival of the Fittest

She was giving up,
Losing the will,
My sick little white goat.
She'd been drenched and given electrolytes,
But still she lay down.
I picked her up and stood her on her feet,
And brought her feed close.
She ate but was weak.
I returned each half hour to find her down again.
It was disheartening and I was running out of ideas.
Then I saw her curly paddock mate,
The one we kept with her for company.
And I watched my sick goat bullied.
I understood.
In this cruel, hard world,
The weak are ground down by the strong.
Better for my nanny to fight her battle on her own terms,
Free at least from persecution.
Curly goat removed,
She now at least stands.

Flossie

She must have looked so cute as a little kid,
When she melted someone's heart.
But she grew.
And so did her angora coat,
Into soft, white ringlets.
Her friendliness was praised,
And bemoaned, when she climbed up to be petted.
She bleated: "Hello!". "Please feed me!", "I'm bored!" and "What-a-bout me?"
Occasionally she ate things that were wanted for other purposes.
Sometimes she got into places she was not welcome.
Eventually her owners had to move and she was passed on,
From one reluctant relative to another.
And now with her coat overlong,
Her hooves and horns in need of care.
And her bottom far from respectable,
She has come to us.
And we shall call her Flossie.

Drafting the kids

It's the time of year for separation.
The fecund from the barren.
Those to be eaten from those that are to be saved for breeding.
For the wooly members of our community it is into these two flocks.
A little looking about for estranged offspring by nursing ewes.
But interest is not maintained longer than the udder discomfort.

For the nannies and kids the separation is a greater wrench.
Bleating pitifully, straining against the leads with blue tongues bulging, choking
The young are dragged, pushed and with tails twisted, almost carried to their separate paddocks.
For escapees that brave the electric and barb, it is into the jug of the goat shed.

For two days we hear them crying.
Each new morning brings their bawling growing more feeble and  hoarse.
By day three their mothers no longer return their pathetic bleats and return to grazing unperturbed.
So just when we suspect that they may have succumbed to their own misery they are released.
Cautiously they move around their new flock.
Have heads butted by the more dominant.
Then find their own niche.

Persistence

Persistence
That's how the goats,
Finally break through our fences.
They spy a delectable wattle,
Delicious native raspberry,
Our orchard.
Push and pull.
Twisted necks and other contortions.
Heads and horns defy the electric wire,
Then shoulders,
And they're through.
Ripping limbs,
Long strings of bark.
Delicately nibbling tender green leaves.
Ring barking.
Till our cherished trees,
Stand naked and torn.
I gasp dismayed.
Today we will fortify the 'barb' with hinge joint.