83 you were a beast, a huge masculine brute of a doe. You used to bully all the other goats. Heck, you'd try to overpower me too if I held the food bucket. When you were eating no one could hope to get a bite, except for your daughter Marsha. Only she was exempt from your tyranny. I'll admit I rejoiced when you were sold. You were always such a fighter. I don't know how many times Ken told me the story of you being the sickliest doe he owned that ever lived. That time you had wasted down to nothing, so weak that you got your horns stuck in some branches and just hung there, too weak to get yourself loose. Yet you survived that, and became the robust, boisterous goat I knew. So when your new owner emailed me today about you being sick I was surprised. 83 you were never sick in all the time I knew you. I called and tried to advise him on what to do but he didn't have many of the supplies. But the vet was coming in the afternoon so I thought you'd be fine. But he called a few hours later with the news of your death. I still can't quite believe you're gone. The Vet School will determine what brought you down in the end. In the meantime I am still in shock. Even if you were a beastly bully, I will miss you 83.