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March 4, 2026
I shot a goat today.
A buck.
And if you’ve never had to put an animal down, that sentence may land heavy.
It should.
We lost our main herdsire, Hank, last summer. Hank never truly recovered from injuries he sustained during the dog attack in January 2025. He fought hard, but sometimes damage runs deeper than we can see.
Alongside the parasite issues we’ve been battling in the sheep, we lost our replacement herdsire, Charlie.
Several years ago — about four — I bought a new, unrelated buck and five nannies from a nearby farm. We were still very new to goats. Still learning. Still shaping our values and management practices.
I didn’t ask all the questions I should have asked.
Within six months, following a prolonged drought, then prolonged period of rain, all five nannies were dead from parasite overload. All the rest of our goats were just fine.
That is the only other time we’ve had mass losses from parasites — and it was only those new goats.
I remember thinking back then that I should take the buck to the sale barn. But he looked fine. I liked his horns. His bleat sounded....feminine, though, lol! I wanted genetic diversity. I believed I could strengthen him through management. I thought I could make him into a better goat.
Now, looking back, I suspect he was never as strong as I hoped.
Hank covered for him. Hank’s strength masked Charlie’s weaknesses.
We dewormed the herd last week with fenbendazole. They will need a second round tomorrow.
This morning, Charlie was down.
If you ranch long enough, you learn this truth:
A downed animal is a dead animal.
I checked his eyelids using FAMACHA scoring.
They were white.
He’d already been dewormed twice last week. He was given a shot of B12 last week. He wasn’t going to recover.
Parasites are merciless. Once the anemia is severe enough, the body simply doesn’t have the strength to rebound.
We loaded him onto the side-by-side and drove to the back corner of the property.
And I shot him.
He died instantly.
No more suffering.
For seven years, I’ve avoided this part.
Anything that needed to be put out of its misery was handled by my husband. I am not emotionally fragile. I can carry heavy things.
But his shoulders are stronger. And he has carried that weight for me.
But, he also travels. Sometimes for weeks at a time.
There will come a day when he’s not here, and an animal needs to be dispatched. Today, it was my turn to take care of business, so I can be emotionally prepared when I have to do it on my own.
Letting an animal slowly starve or dehydrate from parasite overload while you try to “save” it is not kindness. I know this full well. It’s cruelty disguised as hope.
My husband walked me through the process, where to aim, etc. I knew, technically, what to do. But when it came down to it, I questioned myself.
And here’s the thing:
When an animal is suffering, you don’t have the luxury of self-doubt or second-guessing yourself. In that moment, it’s not about you.
It’s about the life you were called to steward — and steward well.
We love to romanticize farm life.
The fresh air. The pasture. The babies in spring.
But this life is not cottage-core.
It is not aesthetic.
It is not gentle in the way people imagine.
Compassion sometimes looks like:
A steady hand.
A clear decision.
A hard action.
An immediate end.
Putting an animal in a barn and attempting heroic measures that won’t work may make you feel better. Maybe. But only temporarily,.
But if the outcome is prolonged suffering, that isn’t mercy. That’s ego. And I say that as someone who spent nearly a week trying to pull a sheep back from the brink of death — fluids, injections, prayers — only to watch her die within hours after I asked the Lord for clarity.
Farm life humbles you like that.
Stewardship cannot be merely sentimental.
It is responsible.
It means:
Knowing when to fight
Knowing when to let go
Knowing when to act quickly
And having the courage to do so
You have to get over yourself.
You have to get out of your own way.
You have to love the animal enough to end its suffering swiftly and humanely.
Today, that was my job.
And I did it.
This work is not for people who only love the pretty parts.
It is not for those who want the image without the weight.
It is not for the faint of heart.
It is for people willing to carry responsibility — even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.
Stewardship isn’t always soft and gentle, like we imagine Jesus as our Shepherd at the beginning of Psalm 23.
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do…
Is pull the trigger.