And at that moment, I felt like a farmer.
I’d just spent hours with a goat as she tried and failed to deliver a kid. I was covered in blood and dirt, and at the end of my midwifing skills.
The emergency after-hours vet—Olivia was on call yesterday evening—did a lovely job, but even she struggled to extract the huge dead buck stuck like a cork in my little Toggenburg doe.
While Olivia washed up, I deposited the dead kid in a bucket and wearily trudged out of the paddock with it, leaving my doe toked up on painkillers and antibiotics. I thanked the vet, smiled, and apologised for dragging her out on a Friday evening. I made small-talk as she filled out the paperwork. I signed the form.
All the while, what I wanted to do was cry. Out of exhaustion, out of compassion for what my doe had endured, out of sadness for the loss of a kid.
A real farmer.