Tuesday, April 27, 2010

The Dingo Ate My Goats and Other Random Thoughts

When I was younger (much younger), I worked at a law firm in Central Wisconsin. It was my first "real" job. The senior partner was an older gentleman who I found quite contrary. At times, he was smiling and laughing, and at other times, he would be crabby. Like the day he found me in a hallway and told me to write something down only to find that I didn't have a pen. He then reminded me that "I wasn't hired to smile." It is because of him that I usually carried a pen around with me at all times when I was working after that. Whenever I think of this senior partner, the one thing that I remember is how he would sometimes suddenly start telling a story. You could be in a hurry, you could be in the middle of a big project, it just didn't matter; you were going to stand there and listen to his story. Some made sense, some just didn't, but they all started the same way . . . "So, there I was . . . " I think that is the perfect beginning for any story, and especially the one I'm going to share in this post.

So, there I was at the veterinary clinic yesterday picking up my cat. It is always crazy busy there because the veterinarian is the absolute best. I was standing at one of three receptionist stations waiting for them to give me my cat. A teenage girl was standing at the next station proudly showing me her new pink collapsable square cat carrier. She was thrilled about the pink cat carrier. She asked me if I thought it was wrong to get a pink carrier for her "boy" cat, but she didn't wait for my answer before she started texting on her iPhone. I'm sure she was texting about the pink carrier.

As I was standing there, an older lady came in. She was shortish and very composed. She walked up to the third receptionist station and waited for the receptionist to hang up the phone. When asked how she could be helped, she said, "I would like the vet to come out to my truck. A dog got in my goat pen and bit up three goats. I got what's left of them in the back of my truck, and I need to know if there's anything worth saving." Time seemed to freeze for about a minute while we all processed what she just said. The receptionist went to get the vet right away.

The teenager got her cat in the pink carrier, but didn't have a credit card to pay the bill. She was calling her Mom for a credit card number. I got my Gita and was carrying her out to the van. The vet was walking right ahead of us and held the door open. We talked about my cat, and then she went to look in the back of the goat lady's pickup truck. I stood transfixed. The goats must've been badly mutilated because nothing made a sound, and I couldn't hear anything moving in the back of that pickup. And I felt so sorry for that lady and her goats. I have no idea why she is raising goats, but they seem like fairly docile creatures, and it is a shame that a dog capable of severely injuring three goats is on the loose.

So there I was feeling sorry for three unlucky goats. That's not something that happens everyday. I don't think I would ever want to be a veterinarian.

1 comment:

  1. Poor goats. Some friends of mine down the street have two pet pygmy goats in their huge backyard. Urban farms.

    This past weekend I experienced a fair share of mama earth animal earthiness to last me awhile. Rescued a chick out of it's shell. UGH!I wouldn't want to be a veterinarian either.