WARNING: This is a sad but unfortunately a very realistic story and it happens all too often. Well worth reading and remembering. If it saves even one dairy goat (or ANY breed) from a similar fate I will feel I've accomplished something. As I've said before and truly believe . . . there are a lot worse fates than being sold as a meat animal - or being responsibly raised, fed, cared for and butchered for a family's own use. I won't try to convert someone who doesn't wish to "eat their own goats" (I understand completely), but I DO suggest you open your mind to the possibility it may be the best solution for those excess dairy goat bucklings you plan on selling (not Pygmies or NDs as pet homes CAN usually be found for mini-goat wethers, IMO). It's harder for the larger standard goat kids. At the VERY least, please castrate (wether) those little bucklings before sending them to new homes. Give them a fighting chance.
I for one do not eat my goats, but I do not have problem with people who do. As long as the goat is treated humanly up until its death I have no qualms. I would rather that then goats being inhumanly treated for all of its life. I do strongly agree that all buck kids that are NOT herd sire material be wetherd and disbudded before sold so that the don't suffer a similar fate as Elmer.
"WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ELMER?"
Nanny and Flossie were pampered family milk goats that lived right outside of
town. I didn't know the people who owned them, but whenever I drove by I always
rejoiced to see two family milkers who were obviously so well cared for and happy.
They were mostly Nubian but obviously grades, since their noses were more
straight than curved and their ears were of the type known as "airplane". I
would see the children petting them and watch the two does follow members of the
family around the yard, and I knew that here was a place where the goats had
found their true niche - lots of love and milk for the children, with the love
returned.
I got acquainted with the family when Mrs. Smith discovered I had goats and
called just to "talk goats" one day. I enjoyed talking to her. She was an
intelligent woman with an inquiring mind, she obviously wanted the best for her
animals.
She had bred them to a purebred Nubian buck in a program of up-grading, and of
course I heartily approved. She was very excited about the approaching births
since they had bought the does as milkers and this would be the first kids they
had seen born.
Came the appointed day, and Nanny came through with twin doe kids to much
rejoicing. Flossie, however, delivered herself a single buck kid. At my house a
buck is not cause for joy, as a rule, but at the Smiths' any kid was welcome and
they greeted him with as much enthusiasm as they had the does. They named him
Elmer. Mrs. Smith called me "What do you do with buck kids?" she asked. "Elmer
is only a grade," I told her
- I am not always tactful but I was trying to be gentle. "The best thing to do
with him is destroy him, or wether him and butcher him later."
A stunned silence. Finally - "Destroy Little Elmer? Eat Little Elmer? We
couldn't We love him too much! Mindy (another goat breeder) told us to take him
to the auction."
I always went to the auction in those days. I guess I was a masochist. I had
even, in my early stupidity, sold a goat or two through the auction. It's
something I don't like to remember. I went, though, and wept over the goats
there, wishing I had an unlimited fortune so I could buy all of them and put
them out of their misery...
"If you would like to bring him over here," I said as kindly as I could, "I will
shoot him for you."
Heart attack! "Wouldn't it be better to take him to the auction?" she begged.
I was firm. "No. You don't know what will happen to them once they are sold -
maybe they will be eaten, maybe something else will happen to them, something
not as nice as simply being eaten. Believe me, it's better to destroy him."
"I'm sorry, " she said, "I just can't destroy Little Elmer. I'll take him to the
auction, maybe somebody will take him for a pet."
"Worst thing that could happen!" I shouted - but I had lost her. She was polite
but distant when she hung up the phone.
So I went again to the auction that week. In the pen with all the skinny,
runny-nosed kids, the does with half an udder, the wethers with pinkeye and
scabs, was a fat, slick, cunning black Nubian kid with a red ribbon around his
neck. I looked for Mrs. Smith. She wasn't around but I found Mindy.
Is that Mrs. Smith's kid?" I asked her.
"Yes," she said, "isn't he darling?"
"Has he been castrated?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know," she replied impatiently, and turned away. I checked. He
hadn't been castrated. Nor had he been disbudded. I wrung my hands in despair.
Why hadn't I at least done this for Mrs. Smith?
I watched as Little Elmer was picked up by one hind leg and tossed over the
barrier into the auction ring, and then poked with a long staff to keep him
jumping around while the desultory bidding went on.
"Oh, Mama," from behind me - "buy me that, isn't he cute?" And a bid came - a
pet goat for the child, how cute, how nice for the boy to have his own little
pet goat. Elmer left, cradled in the arms of a beaming child, his red ribbon
perky but his eyes a little wild...
It was six months later when Elmer made his pre-ordained visit to the auction. I
recognized him immediately. He was still fat and sleek looking, he had been
getting enough to eat, but he was very large. Much too big for a small boy to
play with. And it was worse because he now had very sharp horns about five
inches long. He was alert and watched all the comings and goings with interest.
I came up to him and said, "Hello Elmer," and he gave me a soft "maa." I rubbed
his head and he ached his neck in pleasure, which presented the sharp ends of
the horns to me. "Good luck this time around, Elmer," I whispered, and went up
for the bidding.
"Short yearling billy goat here," the auctioneer informed the audience, as Elmer
was dragged in by one horn. "Strong rascal, ain't he?" as everyone laughed at
the way his feet were planted and how it was difficult for the man dragging him
to keep him going.
"Just what we need, hon," said a man beside me to his wife. "Great for Jill to
practice goat-tying." And the bidding started. Jill got her goat-tying practice
animal and he was dragged out with a rope around his horns and thrown into the
back of a pickup along with two pigs and a steer calf.
Another six months passed. As I came into the auction yard I recognized Jill -
and there was Elmer again, sure enough. This time, though, he was tied to the
tailgate of the pickup truck and nobody was getting too close to him.
"He stinks something terrible!" Jill was telling a teenaged friend. "I can't get
near him. Horrible stinky thing. And the auction won't let us run him through
because he smells so bad. I'm just hoping somebody will buy him from here."
A man approached. Jill's dad turned hopefully. "Breeding billy?" the man
inquired laconically. "You bet," Jill's dad said, "can't you smell him?" Big
laugh all round. The man hawked and spat. "I'll give you $15 for him."
"Done."
And Elmer was again dragged with a rope around his horns to another pickup truck
where a thin, mangy dog was waiting patiently. I noticed this time Elmer's coat
was rougher looking, and there were scabs and scraped places on his flanks. But
he was still alert, and proud, still ready for whatever life would bring him.
I never went back to the auction again. A few months later a man came over to
buy some milk from me. He mentioned that his "billy" hadn't "caught" any of his
"nannies" and he was pretty mad about it.
"Bought him for breeding," he said, "and he's no good."
I inquired. What kind of a buck? How did he handle his breeding program?
"Oh, he's a black billy with long ears - but he's got these huge horns so I keep
him chained in the side yard, and if a nanny wants him she just comes up and
gets it. Works out great - at least it always has before. Beggar sure smells bad
enough, he ought to be potent!"
Could it be ...? I offered to come see the buck and give him my opinion. He
said, "Sure, I don't want to get rid of him unless I have too." I got directions
to his house and drove out the next day. There, in a field devoid of all but the
most discouraged yellow grass, stood Elmer. His head was bowed as if the heavy
horns were weighting it down. His bones stood out and there was a large
suppuration sore on his left hip, where it looked as if the bone would surely
show through, so thin was he.
"Dogs got in," the man informed me. "He fought them off, though." Elmer's chain
was about ten feet long but it had got tangled up on the log it was hooked to so
he only had a foot or two to move.
"Don't know if the kids gave him any water today or not, have to keep after them
kids all the time," the man muttered.
I approached the buck. The chain had cut into the thick black hide on the back
of his neck and scabbed over; the once sleek shiny black coat was thin from lice
and rough from internal parasites and poor feeding; his feet were like clubs.
When I came up to him he didn't even raise his head. I didn't look at the man.
"I don't think this buck is in any shape to breed," I told him. "Do you want me
to take him off your hands?"
"Well," he said, "I paid $25 for him, I reckon he's got that much meat on him."
"Are you going to butcher him and eat him?" I asked. "Oh, I don't know as I'd
mess with that," he said quickly. "I could let you have him for $20."
Money was never something I was very long on. Elmer was sold the first time for
$10 and I didn't have it to spend then - I surely didn't have $20 now. But what
could I do?
"Look," I said, "unless you feed this buck, and unchain him, and give him some
proper exercise and worm him, and delouse him and give him some vitamins and
trim his feet, he's worthless to you. Take him right now off that chain and
bring him into the barn and I will show you what you need to buy for him to get
him back to health."
"Buy what?" he asked suspiciously.
"Well, hay and grain for a start."
"Don't have no money for grain, " he huffed. "Then, like I said, you need
vitamins and worm pills, and louse powder ..."
"Oh, to heck wit it. Do you want him? You can have him, I don't care, he's no
good to me."
So I drove home and got my trailer and came back to take Elmer on his last trip.
Carefully I took the chain from off his sore neck and used his beard to lead
him, stumbling, into the trailer. Home again, Elmer and I went up deep into the
woods. He stood unmoving, head down, as I stood him by a tree and cocked the
pistol at the base of his ear.
"Good-bye, Elmer," I whispered, and at last he lifted his head and his eyes met
mine. He was less than two years old. The coyotes feasted that night.
I met Mrs. Smith right before we moved away from there. We chatted, I told her
we were moving, she asked about my goats, mentioned that she was lucky, only doe
kids born this year ... and then she said, "I wonder whatever happened to Little
Elmer? He was so cute - we were sure fond of him."
No you weren't fond of him, Mrs. Smith, I thought as I turned away. You sure
were not fond of him. But I didn't tell her what had happened to him, not then.
I couldn't find my voice. I will tell her, though, someday, before her next
Elmer is born.
I do not know the author of this story but was told it was written by Pat Hollister in November of 1979.