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Fibromyalgia
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Wilma
Wilma was a white long-haired female goat, who came to live with us on 20 May 2001. She had been living previously with a young couple in Wellsford, who had known her for at least ten years and was an adult when they first met her. We took our Nissan Safari (a large "SUV" in North American terms) and trailer for the pick-up; Wilma sat in the back of the Safari (after being lifted up into it, 'cos it was too high for her to jump, according to her former owner) with me in the back seat in front of her holding her lead, while her house went on the trailer.
I discovered pretty quickly (ie, before we left her previous home!) that she was very friendly, and liked to rub her face on clothing. Her previous people had told me that she would rub her face in the washing hanging on the line when she could, and she loved to have someone standing next to her, so she could rub her face on their leg. She also came with stories about how she'd been found on occasion inside the house, standing on the bed, and eating parts of the house-building materials when given the opportunity! I suspect there is no such thing as a dull-and-boring goat.
Wilma settled in quickly, and I just adored the way she rubbed her face on my leg - until I discovered a lot of small bruises on my legs, that is! I couldn't work out how they'd got there when I first saw them, until the next time I was with Wilma, and I realised she was catching the tip of her horn on me with each stroke. <OW!> We learned to compromise - she didn't poke me quite so often, and I'd use my hand as a barrier when she did.
We nearly lost Wilma in the first month she lived with us. I had no idea that there were poisonous plants on our property before this episode. I arrived home from the local market one Saturday afternoon to find her standing with her head drooped, and not a happy goat at all; I had noticed the day before that she was grinding her teeth, but didn't know at the time that this was a sign of pain. Danielle, one of our local vets, paid us a visit but could find no reason for the illness. This went on for a couple of days, with the vet visiting at least once each day over the weekend to administer pain relief and other medications in an attempt to help her recover. We didn't really know what was happening until the Monday, when the vet had spoken to other vets in her practise and the possibility of rhododendron poisoning was suggested. Danielle had looked around during her visits for any poisonous plants, but the rhododendron was difficult to spot at that time of the year. As it happened, Wilma had been able to reach a small part of the bush, and nibbled at it. There was nothing to be done to help Wilma, she would either recover or die. She was one sick goat for a few days, but in time she recovered and started eating again.
In very short order, all the rhododendrons were removed from our property. I will not have anything like that on our property again while we have grazing/browsing animals in our care.
It was during this time that we discovered that goats love olives! Nigel came out to help me at one stage with an injection for Wilma, and had an olive-paste sandwich in his hands, which she showed great interest in. It was great to see her show an interest in something for the first time in days, so we encouraged her to have a little. The first plant I saw her eat as she recovered was the one small plant of gorse that was growing on our property, which I'd been meaning to get rid of; never mind - Wilma took care of that for me. Gorse is a noxious weed in New Zealand.
At the beginning of 2004, Wilma was having difficulty keeping any weight on. She was very thin when I called the vet out to check her over. Andrea said she was basically sound, just rather old, and we talked about ways in which I could support her and supplement her feed. I also joined a Yahoo group called Practical Goats and posted there about our situation; some lovely people wrote and passed on excellent advice.
I gave Wilma free access to "multi-feed" pellets, which she enjoyed, but she didn't like other feeds that I bought for her, so we stuck to the one she liked. She was drenched regularly, with the due dates written on my calendar to remind me when it was needed; thankfully, she loved the taste of the drench, and would suck it up from the syringe with glee (my other two goats think I'm trying to poison them when I bring it near them). I didn't think she would survive the winter, but she did.
On Thursday October 21, 2004, Wilma passed away. I'd noticed in the previous week that she wasn't as bright as usual, and when her breathing started to be laboured I made a call to the vet to get her checked over. I had wondered when I made the appointment if the outcome would be the suggestion of putting her to sleep, but Wilma had other ideas, and died peacefully in a favourite corner an hour before the vet arrived. She has been buried nearby.
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