Arturo came to me when he was about 2 months old, and everyone could see he was a special boy right from the start. He was always amiable and interested in whatever you were doing, and he had some great tricks. When he was little, if you bent down, he'd hop on your back for piggyback rides, looking all around and staying as long as you'd let him. He seemed surprised one day to be too big anymore, standing on me expectantly as I lay flat in the dirt after bending over to pick something up.
He could turn on any light and open any bolted gate, and had half convinced me he could fly, until one night when he let me in on his secret. He leapt up onto the stall wall, walked along with his hooves single file, twisted his body around the post, stepped onto the gate, swung it open, teetered along it, balancing his weight to keep it from swaying, and reached up to the ceiling to pull a two-inch lightbulb chain with his lips. He taught me a lot about goats that night.
Arturo had an innate graciousness, one that usually surprised people who had "heard about goats." He was more polite than even many people seem to be anymore. He was a natural at parties. At a big family gathering, he sat among groups of people in the yard and, when anyone announced they were leaving, would get up, escort them to their car, then come back to the group. Each time he was followed by his herdmate and his two worshipful ducks, so the whole gang got credit for it. It was a pretty hard procession to ignore.
One night we were having a veggie cookout on the upstairs deck, and each time the doorbell rang, I'd run down to greet the latest arrival. When only one more person was due and the bell rang, everyone said, "That's Mark." I ran down and opened the door, and there stood Arturo with his herdmate, smiling expectantly at the thought of coming up for some veggies. (They waited but got their share.) They rang that bell all through the party and some more the next day, and never before or since.
If you read stories to him, he'd rest his head on your shoulder and look at the pictures.
Arturo and I were close even in silence, always "outstanding in our fields" (in good weather). But our relationship was incredibly enriched over our last few years together by professional animal communicator Colleen Nicholson (2Colleen@compuserve.com). Just like with Arturo, it started out as one of those little introductions you want to look back at later and marvel at for all it brought about. Outstanding in her own field as well, Colleen can not only clarify what our animal friends want and don't want, what they need and don't need, she's also able communicate that sense of joy in being alive that animals feel, and that people often forget. She helped us each meet on our own terms, to stay open to possibilities, and to get each other's jokes.
Something else that old goats and their pals will want to hear is that he had amazing results overcoming arthritis in his last year by taking the (stronger) human version of a glucosamine, chondroitin and curcumin product I got at the health food store: ARTH-9, by Rx VitaminsTM of Eastchester, NY. He eagerly took six capsules a day for probably a couple months or more, then selected fewer and fewer until he was limp-free and stayed that way, eventually refusing any more capsules.
Arturo died on January 7, 1998. He was going on 13, though he'd had very few "old" days. He'd gone sledding (he'd climb up the hill with you and run behind) and played a lot with kids in the snow for days, just days before he asked for the vet to come one last time. He was very calm and affectionate to the last, clearly content and appreciative of a life well lived.
Since he died at the end of a weeklong thaw, we were able to have Arturo's body buried in the yard with a backhoe. In the spring, I'm going to get a big rock from the highway department to put over it, something suitable for engraving, and future games of King of the Hill.
The vet was surprised that, toward the end and weakened, Arturo made it a point to see him to his car, all on his own. That was him, all right.
Copyright 1998. Kathleen P. Hill. All rights reserved.