I once attended a pre-celebration of life event. One of the recycling center founders, Teslin Philips, knew she was going to die, so beforehand, she arranged for a get-together with friends.

It was quite amazing. I’ve been told that people who are close to death have little ego left. This was true in this instance. Teslin had accepted her fate, and she was very unassuming about it. One of the many wise things she said was that hope is an illusion – that hope implies a belief in the future, and this is a fiction.

I understood what she was saying, but limitedly because I was nowhere near death’s doorstep.

Stormy talking with Thelma and Louise

Now I am again thinking about hope. To say I hope Stormy lives, is this an illusion? I’m not sure.

I am not very optimistic about her recovery. Will my attitude play a role what’s to be? I’m not sure.

Pete remains quite optimistic, so I am riding on his shirttails. I am going along with what he thinks, based on his very upbeat observations. Yes, she’s drinking water. Yes, she’s eating hay pellets. And no, her head being down does not mean that she’s checking out. Rather, she’s just resting.

Tomorrow, a.m. I would like to walk into the barn and find her standing next to her buddy Ranger, who in comparison, seems in the peak of condition. Every spring he has considerable hair loss, and this year is no exception. But this has never affected his attitude, which has always been one of enthusiasm and exuberance.

We’ve had Ranger the second longest of all the animals on the property. Raudi gets the nod on site longevity.

So I guess the plan for now is to hold off on having the veterinarian come and play the role of the Grim Reaper. He’s coming out next week to do spring exams. And if Stormy is still the way she is now, well, then we’ll decide what to do.

My basis for comparison is my mother. Towards the end of her life, she was a lot like Stormy is now. She was unable to sit up; it was as if her physical self was giving up the ghost. Her mind was the final thing to go.

Again, it seems unfair – Stormy made it through winter. The buds are just now coming out on the trees, and the snow is nearly gone. I had envisioned our goat now bounding around the yard with little goat babies. I was going to drink to their health – raw goat milk. This is what I imagined. This is not what came to be.

I will, most likely tonight, go out and tell Stormy that if she decides to die, that we will miss her; however, I’d also tell her not to stick around for our sake. That’s not how it’s supposed to go.

Do I seem downcast? I am, very. We bond with the animals that live with us, the upper quadrant crew, chickens and goats included.

Well, as Emily Dickenson so aptly noted, hope is that thing with feathers.

Next: 126. 5/7/21: Stormy’s Passing