I shot the goat. Lined him up in my sights and took him down with two agonal bleats, then turned on my heel and got the butcher knife from the kitchen to make sure it was done. And as much as I like to think myself as practical, I still can't figure out if it's the killing, or the thought that I may be this cold is what's bothering me more. Let's face it. That goat was a bane on my house. I ended it quickly and as painlessly as I possibly could, and didn't flinch about getting dirty to make sure he didn't suffer. In every way, I did the most humane thing I possibly could to make his end clean.
I also put in my notice that afternoon.
My stomach hurts.