Tribute to Basil (the Goat)

From Terry Oakley:
Basil, the goat and our little friend, died this morning; taken sick while we were in Queensland.
Prior to Basil we’d had Snowy a ‘Welcome to North Warrandyte’ gift from Denis & Sandra Robertshaw. But Snowy had disgusting habits as most non-wether goats do.
Basil came from David & Pat Hogg in 1997 and was about one year old and a wether! David & Pat are nice people, so we expected a nice goat. He was a Toggenberg with bright eyes and a soft nature…we were intrigued by the little toggles that hung from the top of his chest which when he was younger allowed us to stroke as he drooled. But there was another side to Basil. It came out as we got older. We were told that goats will eat anything! He wouldn’t ! Blackberries? He’d eat the flowers and leaves but leave the vines. He’d eat the jacarandas we planted and most native trees including eucalypts, acacias, but not burgan. No more he liked baled Lucerne which made him gag. Or spinach. He was also choosy about what he’d eat, from the kind people who tried to give him it. If Cath; our one-time neighbour, gave him the shells’ from fresh squeezed oranges he’d turn his nose up and snort or worse: wait till her guard was down and give her the blunt part of this head. On the other hand from Glennys & Brian he loved their fresh-squeezed orange peel. Perhaps it was from where it was bought. From IGA, no problem! Elsewhere?
Two successive generations of students at IGA got to know him, though none visited him. After what we’d said about his ‘thank you’ habits, no wonder! But there was one. Julian, son of Peter & Gabby Byrnes, would pass him on his way home from school and squat or lie down near him and they’d talk for hours. Occasionally Julian may tickle him under his chin; stroke his beard or pull the burrs from his beard. And he’d let him without trace or hint of an inner demon.

Many times I saved his life & was rewarded in the time tested way.

The first (and second) it had been raining for days & Basil had been tethered down hear the dam. In slumber in the wee hours I heard his distress call. So, dressed in naught but my Mitch Dowds and wellies (what’s the point of dressing up) and armed with torch I made my way down to find him. Not until I heard his cry could I even see him. And there, caught in the pool of light from the torch, his head, water lapping at his muzzle two golden fire eyes glared from the middle of the dam. I tried to pull him out using his tether chain but he wouldn’t budge. Reluctantly, I entered the water…the thought of all those yellow-bellied eels Geoff Leek had dug from the bottom of it didn’t exactly inspire me and the thought of them in my wellies made me shiver, so I took them off and with trepidation entered it’s murky depths. One gingered step and I sank right in over my head. Yuck! I wasn’t too pleased. When I got to him I realised he was standing on top of a large submerged rock. So, I got behind and pushed him into the water on the nearest-bank-side and he swam/slopped to the side and out. I followed. Momentarily turning my back to extricate his tether chain from behind the rock, cold rain pouring over my head and over my bare back I got the distinct feeling of weightlessness and flying as I flew through the air to land with a splodge in a belly flop just in front of the rock.

You guessed it, he’d repaid me!

On another occasion he lay lifeless in the drive such I thought he was dead. When I picked his head up he looked like an old man with a hangover. I tried to get him to drink water. He was definitely dehydrated but no way would he take the elixir that would save him. I had an appointment I had to keep and was in no mood for Basil games, so I dragged a bag of salt out of the boot and taking a handful put it to his lips…still no luck. I stomped up to the house & brought the bag of goat food that Leanne at the pet shop, Westend had sold me so many times. Taking a handful I placed it under his chin and like dope to a junkie he slopped his tongue out the side and licked the grains from my hand. So I scooped a handful of salt and rested a small pile of goat food on the top of it…and placed this under his chin. Again his tongue popped out to take it and I let him have the handful…he swallowed the lot in one gulp. And shaking like a mad Sheila rose like a lion. I then offered him the water bucket and he drank as if there’d be no tomorrow…. Yet again I turned my back to close the sacks of salt and goat food. And you guessed it. I didn’t make the appointment, I was too hurt. The vet also told me that what I had done was dangerous too. But!

So we could go on holiday Greg & Kate Edwards looked after him twice. Greg recounted to me that he couldn’t understand why Basil always rewarded ‘his’ kindness with the hard of his head….

Mick and Chris investigated getting a pig (a pig?) and to test their animal magic they looked after him for two weeks over Christmas.

“Two weeks of hell!” Mick told me…”never again!”

Generations of small children came to see and feed him. Amie and Laura, with Josh; we called them the railway children, came down from the top of the road to take Thymu for walks and regularly hold conference with Basil and he’d nod his approval and let them pass.

Jenny first, then, much later, Janine and father-in-law Jim at South Warrandyte General Store delivered him meadow hay and dropped it where he liked it. Rabbits, ducks young and old and two small dogs Dusty and Rusty from up the street often sought refuge near his food pile. And helped themselves to a few scraps.

And then, mid noughties, one morning Thymu went mad and as Hilary crossed the deck to investigate, saw Basil being attacked by two large dogs. She shouted at them. One had him down by the muzzle as the other attacked his rear. Hilary’s scream for them to ‘get off’ (not the words she used) caused one to stand back and rear his head towards her in defiance. It was this action that helped her describe to John Lamb the Ranger what the dog looked like and he had a good idea of dog and location. Christian the Vet came out and tended him with soft words, anti- inflammatories and antibiotics; dressed the wounds with blue bandages and recounted that one of his ‘pet’ animals had been so savaged by dogs that it had to be put down.

Basil made the Warrandyte Diary this time when Cath Andrew wrote an article on loose dogs with pictures of the bandaged Basil. He had his moment of fame albeit painful, yet, for several weeks we reveled his timidity.

He was the epitome of a good guard goat and apart from the occasional (many) pay backs a good family-member and an all in all good mate.

Basil was a personality, typically Warrandyte. He knew everyone by the car they drove & would cry a different cry for each one, such we knew the owner even when we couldn’t see it. You could stand on the verandah and call “Hey Baz” and he’d answer back till you stopped calling and then he’d call for you to do it again. And it would go on and on like this till you got bored and went inside. Then,

On Sunday we got back from a week away and I went to see him. Normally he’d be crying that distinctive call to Hilary or me as soon as we got out of the house or the car. But not this time. He was lying on his side on a pile of dry flattened hay. It was raining, but the hay I felt was warm and dry. I rationalised he’d been lying on top of it for some time and had tried to raise himself after he’d heard my approach.

I tried to lift him but his rear right leg was trapped underneath & he just couldn’t get enough momentum to get fully up. I was late and with a work shift in Malvern just had to go, but he was unwell. I thought he’d had a stroke and called Hilary on the mobile. She left work immediately and after seeing him called North Warrandyte Vet Clinic & they sent Chris from the animal hospital in Yarambat. He administered pain killer and antibiotics and told us to make him warm; protect him from the rain and cold and to keep him posted. With fresh bales of hay we made a fort to protect him and to keep him warm covered him in the blue tarp. Later we managed to raise him from the damp ground by slipping a deflated tyre inner-tube under his side then inflating it. Raised from the ground he looked resplendent. For the entire world, King of Goats. He rallied for one whole night and day. But on Wednesday we went to see him and he was definitely ill. We called the vet again and Kathy the vet came out. If he was to be put down I didn’t want to be there, so I watched from afar. And I was pleased it was Kathy for she was gentle and kind and sat by his side, talked to him just like Julian and the grandkids used to. She made him comfortable by packing that sweet meadow hay up near to him as she patted his nose and tickled his chin, but I guess he knew. She administered the sedative to quieten him and as he nodded in slumber administered the lethal injection. And he passed away.

She stayed with him, closed his eyes, placed the hay to cover his head from flies and slowly walked away as if she didn’t want to wake him. And that was it.

I called Kevin the bobcat. He came straight over and we dug a deep hole under his favourite hillock, and, after removing his tether-collar, buried him deep. We then placed heavy stones on top so foxes or dogs wouldn’t be able to dig him up. Hilary and I hugged and said a few things reminiscing our little friend, chuckling at the sweet memory of my headlong semi-naked dive into the dam.

This morning as I drove past I looked over and there on the top were two wood ducks sitting right on the top of the mound and nearby two pacific black headed ducks holding court to a host of rabbits. They knew, and I’m sure they missed their little mate just like we all will. … RIP Basil