[scott snedeker]

I could tell by the backward curling neck and the milk-eyed blank stare that the goat is dying. He had wandered over to me limping and with a broken horn two days ago. On some level he is aware that his end is coming and desires companionship in his last moments. I talk to him softly. His fears seem to quiet. As the day fades to night, his breathing becomes shallower with longer pauses between breaths.

"So how does a common dairy goat find his way this far into the forest?"

I hear a snort and a sigh and then stillness. His time has come.

It's getting hard to see so I strike my knife blade against a piece of flint sending sparks on to carefully positioned dried milkweed, hemp and pine cones, kindling that I arranged earlier. A small flicker of flame begins at the bottom. I feel the warmth radiating, beating back the dark and cold of night. Before morning I will have to leave as predators and scavegers will inevitably come to devour my friend and companion for the last two days.

"It is as it should be my friend. You will not come around again but others will borrow what you must return."