Freddy comes to the garage door most mornings now and waits to be let into the house. We let him in. He follows Sarah and me around like one of the dogs, and Jansen and Ripley have taken to him as if he’s always been part of the pack.
He can’t keep food down. We’ve tried electrolytes, colostrum, scrambled eggs, cottage cheese, anything easy on the stomach. None of it stays. He’s emaciated now, but he’s still up and moving and still coming to the door.
This is not the update we wanted to write. We don’t write around the hard parts of farming, and this is one of them. Freddy will likely die soon. We’re keeping him as comfortable as we can, and we’re grateful for the fight he’s shown and for whatever time is left.
We probably shouldn’t get this attached. We do anyway.
Farming this way means you know the animal. You know whether it prefers the shade or the sun, whether it comes when you call. You know it by name.
Update, from the July 17 newsletter: Freddy passed peacefully last week, his head on his favorite pillow. We buried him under the cottonwood in the pig pasture, right next to the pen where his brothers and sisters spend their days.
How Freddy’s troubles started is in The Runt. Our pasture-raised meat is in the farm store. More from the farm is in Field Notes.
