My Fallen Musketeer

Sweet Porthos died on Saturday. It was horrible. I was out gardening. The musketeers were having a lovely time foraging beside me. One minute everything was great the next...I turned around and there was Porthos, lying on his back, redness by his tail. I leaned down and discovered that it was his internal organs. The best I could figure is that he pooped them out. Craig had accidentally stepped on him a little while we were working on the water line Thursday, but he seemed to be ok. He was still walking around, eating, snuggling and chirping, but evidently the compression had seriously compromised his bowel walls and he had just been living on borrowed time for the last two days.

Needless to say, I fell apart. He was my favorite of the three, the one Craig had first brought home. He liked running up my chest and into my hood, perching on my shoulder and burrowing into my hair. He was always the first to follow me and the first to find me when I was out of eye shot. He was the sweetest of goslings and there was nothing I could do. He was still alive but fading fast, so I just sat above him and bawled as the life slipped out of his eyes. That's when the rain started. Mother nature's way of mourning his passing I suppose. We all have our way of dealing with things. I buried him later, the brave musketeer, on the edge of my garden where he fell and lined his grave with tiny sticks which Athos and Aramis tried to eat. I didn't know any fine poetry to recite so I sang to him an Irish blessing and sent him on his way. I know it's part of farm life, but I can't help but feel saddened by the loss. You will be missed sweet Porthos, my adventurous goose pirate. Fly free.