Current Work
I shot my first goat in the winter of 2010.
I was home for Christmas. Over the week prior I had meandered up the coast from Philadelphia where I was living at the time, stopping along the way to visit friends. It felt good to be home, and to be back in a familiar place. The big city had not grown on me much in the months that I had spent there. Now, my father and I each sitting beer in hand, in the dim light of winter evening, he mentioned his intention to slaughter a goat the next day.
We led Moe, an older male with a black pelt and white markings, out of the pasture and across the yard to the base of a tree from which a hoist was suspended. Grain was dumped on the ground, and as he ate I pressed the barrel of the .45 to his head and squeezed the trigger.
The angle of the shot was not perfect, but the effect absolute. His body crumpled, a complex assemble of meat bones sinew guts and fasciae. Twitching but not breathing. We worked quickly now, before rigor mortis set, slitting the throat to drain the blood and tying the rear legs to either end of a bar coming down from the hoist.
My father opened the body cavity and we carefully removed the intestines, then we went to work skinning the carcass. Conversation was sparse, as our labor required concentration, but I remember telling him of my frustrations with love, and him listening well. It was perhaps our most intimate interaction in years. We continued through the afternoon to break down the body, and dinner that evening was delicious.
I was home for Christmas. Over the week prior I had meandered up the coast from Philadelphia where I was living at the time, stopping along the way to visit friends. It felt good to be home, and to be back in a familiar place. The big city had not grown on me much in the months that I had spent there. Now, my father and I each sitting beer in hand, in the dim light of winter evening, he mentioned his intention to slaughter a goat the next day.
We led Moe, an older male with a black pelt and white markings, out of the pasture and across the yard to the base of a tree from which a hoist was suspended. Grain was dumped on the ground, and as he ate I pressed the barrel of the .45 to his head and squeezed the trigger.
The angle of the shot was not perfect, but the effect absolute. His body crumpled, a complex assemble of meat bones sinew guts and fasciae. Twitching but not breathing. We worked quickly now, before rigor mortis set, slitting the throat to drain the blood and tying the rear legs to either end of a bar coming down from the hoist.
My father opened the body cavity and we carefully removed the intestines, then we went to work skinning the carcass. Conversation was sparse, as our labor required concentration, but I remember telling him of my frustrations with love, and him listening well. It was perhaps our most intimate interaction in years. We continued through the afternoon to break down the body, and dinner that evening was delicious.
