And the temperature is continuing to drop.
The outside becomes the inside
As goat is pulled and pushed
Up the old dog’s ramp, onto the porch,
Into the well-lit kitchen addition.
Rover stumbles over the doorsill into a temporary pen,
Complete with a plywood wall, cardboard floor, food, water bucket,
Fresh bedding. Goat bumps head on closet coat hangers.
IV fluids and a drench are administered, salt and bicarbonate are fed by hand.
What more can I do?
Can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t (anymore) do cartwheels.
Rather, I can only hope for the best.
But what is hope but an illusion,
An illusion a projection into the future.
The future a construct easily dismantled on the day of reckoning.
Goat lowers himself onto front knees, then back,
Settles his bulk into fresh bedding. It’s late. I should follow his example.
I instead focus my attention on his gut.
There are four stomachs,
The reticulum, the omasum, the abomasum, and the rumen.
It’s my job to get each stomach to do its job,
An undertaking that I must do between other undertakings,
because I’m unable to multi-task.
I kneel beside goat, run hand along bumpy spine.
The rumen, a noun. What might this goat most enjoy eating?
To ruminate, a verb. What might this goat be thinking?
Together, our minds go blank in order that we might both sleep soundly.