I have a confession

We ate Nugget. 

Yes, THE Nugget. The freakishly small and terribly cute triplet with the contracted front legs that was born to Claire last year. 

We didn't butcher him last week, or even last month, it was actually mid-summer. So why am I just now making this confession?

With kidding season right around the corner the subject of processing goats for food often comes to the forefront for debate and criticism. Debate on my end, criticism from others not accustomed to an agricultural lifestyle and the sometimes harsh realities of food production. The secondary reason is that I'm almost finished with my first (and probably only) book.

What, you didn't know I was writing a book? That's because I've only shared it with a select few to save myself the worry of inquiry- Is it done yet? When can I read it? Am I in it? I'm about to share a small part of it here. I'm struggling to rework the section about the relationship between death and farming and killing animals intentionally for food. Yep, that's some deep shit right there. In reworking it I thought 'putting it out there' may be a way to cure me of the mental block preventing me from finishing this section. 

Let me start with Nugget. As you recall, Nugget was the tiny triplet who initially couldn't stand due to contracted knees. He was so tiny that he could only eat an ounce or two at a time for several days so I brought him to work to care for him in a a small cardboard box, maybe more than once. OSHA, please ignore that part. Nugget also had a bit of an underbite, so we were certain from day one that he would not be sold for breeding stock and would likely be used for meat if he grew normally. I flexed and massaged his legs several times daily. I made custom splints out of thermoplastic material and applied and removed them at intervals through the day to allow him to walk and further develop his muscles and relieve the contractures in his front knee joints. After about 3 solid weeks of 'goat therapy' he was running and playing normally, although his stature never reached that of his siblings, he maintained a short, stocky, almost Pygmy goat-like appearance. So why bother? Most 'real' farmers would have put him down at birth if there was any question as to his utility as a production animal. We didn't. Why? Because it was the right thing to do. 

So there's some background information and now I'll share a little on our philosophy on humanely raising animals for food. 

When we started farming, we had never killed anything – at least not intentionally. Except maybe bugs and the occasional mouse.  Dead baby birds, skeletal squirrels, roadkill, family pets, each death was a tragedy, a loss, a reminder of the fragility of life. Though meat-eaters through life, we could be easily swayed by sensationalized images of factory farms and suffering, expressions of sadness and abandonment reflected back from televised fundraisers and politicized commercials. The truth is, we liked meat and we planned to keep eating it.  We are now, in a sense, meat farmers – we raise animals, expressive, sociable animals, with the sole intent to kill them so that we, and others, can consume them.

It’s a challenging process, mentally, emotionally, physically to come to terms with death as an integral part of the cycle of life. Nowhere is this more evident than on a farm. When we raise a family pet, the loss is monumental, whether tragic or natural. When raising groups of livestock, in sums of twenty or twenty thousand, the loss can not only be larger numerically but also tinged with emotion, grief and heartache. Killing does not have to be heartless and cruel, as we are often led to believe. Some degree of ‘hardness’ or indifference is expected over time, but it is OK and acceptable to grieve, to feel both sorry and sorrow that an animal was slaughtered for our benefit. It is noble to thank the animal, to treat it humanely and kindly during life and to honor it in death by minimizing fear and stress and offering a swift and competently implemented end to life.

The reality is, animals die. People die. Despite our best intents and steadfast care, death happens. 

We couldn’t bring ourselves to eat the first goats born on our farm. Though all three kids born on year one were males and we would not be retaining any, we took great pleasure in birthing, raising and rearing them successfully. At that point, we had never even tasted goat meat. Next year, we agreed.

 We placed one with a 4H home and were left with two we needed to sell. Thinking that a sale at auction was the wisest move, Rog transported them to an auction house near our home where goats were abundant. We accepted that they would be slaughtered for meat, we just weren’t ready to take the jump for ourselves at that point. At the auction house, one or two buyers would typically purchase all of the goats, meat, dairy or otherwise and transport them to areas with larger cultural populations generally in more urban areas. There were goats ranging in age from a few days to withered. A few goats were giving birth, most others were hollering and pacing, some were quiet.  All were merchandise, herded, manhandled and corralled from one holding pen to another. There were clear signs of stress and anxiety, wide eyes and bristled tails were funneled through, one after another. I hadn’t entertained the possibility that these kids, so carefully and considerately raised, may be purchased by someone not so caring. We had assumed they would go to slaughter, but there lay the possibility of being brought home, tethered or confined without protection. Perhaps slaughter was a better option.

 In the year or two that followed, something fundamental changed, gradually, and almost imperceptibly. We began to adopt the ‘one bad day’ policy at our farm. Goats became more abundant, chickens and hogs joined the homestead. We raised each without discrimination. There were no ‘meat pens’ where hands off husbandry was the rule. Noses were nuzzled, laps were offered for naps, names were given. They were spoiled and loved equally from birth until death. They had one bad day. We educated ourselves on the methods of slaughter and butchering. Which were the quickest, which were the most humane? We had arranged excellent mentors so as to avoid unnecessary suffering caused by hesitation or ill-preparedness. We have slaughtered a number of animals here and it is still no less difficult to look at something with the wondrous breath of life and know that shortly, by our hands, that life would be gone.  

When farming or homesteading, acceptance of the cycle of life is crucial. We plant vegetables, crops, we fertilize and nurture them, we cull overcrowded plants to promote the growth of others. We harvest and then intentionally kill, or cull the plants in preparation for planting in the following season. We don’t mourn them or even consider it killing or death and we often take the renewal and rebirth of spring for granted. Animals, however, live, move, interact and thereby create a much more difficult barrier to acceptance of the same cycle of birth, death and rebirth. Dispatching, processing, harvesting, butchering, however stated is still killing. It is intentional and it is deliberate. Some of us that choose to raise animals have no intention to ever kill them and eat them, yet the natural order of life sometime intervenes. Death is inevitable on a farm of any size. Our responsibility is to handle it appropriately. To act instead of emote when illness strikes. To treat killing with respect and thanks and not with aloof or callous indifference.  To accept the cyclical nature of life and recognize that grieving is human nature and is acceptable and natural.