Speaking of goats, I have another goat experience to share with you. In April, Mr. Handsome and I traveled to the Big Island of Hawaii for a vacation. (We have been so sad to see all the destruction that the island has endured since our trip, between the volcanic eruptions and hurricanes. Our prayers go out to all who live there.)
On our sixth day, while driving up to the Mauna Kea summit, we pulled off the road to look at a map. While we were pulled over, we saw a mama and two baby goats run across the road. The lava fields and mountain slopes of the Big Island are filled with wild goats, which are descendants of the goats that were given by explorers as gifts to the Hawaiian people beginning in the late 1700s.
The mama and one baby made it across, but the second baby was clipped by the front end of a car. The poor little goat was barely able to limp off the road into the grass. Another driver saw it, and she pulled over, jumped out, walked right over to the goat, and picked it up.
We asked if she needed help and found out that she was a kind-hearted local who raised goats and was planning to take it back to her house to try to save its life. So I drove her car, with her and the goat in the backseat, and Mr. Handsome followed in our rental car.
The goat cried the whole way and was bleeding pretty badly. By the time we arrived at her house, the goat had stopped breathing. We laid it on the grass, and Mr. Handsome performed CPR (minus the mouth-to-mouth, of course) for several minutes, but the poor thing didn’t make it. Mr. Handsome found a grassy field, and we laid it to rest. Not exactly the type of experience we expected to have on our vacation, but it is one that we will always remember.