There’s a quiet kind of heartbreak that comes with homesteading. It’s not loud or dramatic. It’s just… present. Woven into the rhythm of caring for animals and growing things and watching life unfold—sometimes, it also means saying goodbye.
This week, we had to let go of one of our geese. He was one of the only ones we had a nickname for yet– Doofy.
He’d struggled with wry neck a while back, a neurological condition that made it hard for him to hold his head upright. For a time, we weren’t sure he’d pull through. But with rest, extra care, and a lot of patience, he bounced back. His neck stayed a little crooked, but he was strong again—eating well, walking fine, and back with the flock where he was happiest.
For a while, it felt like a small miracle. He had his funny little tilt, but he was doing so well. He was living.
And then, slowly, something changed.
A few weeks after being reintroduced to the others, we noticed he couldn’t stand again. We brought him back into isolation, hoping that with rest and support he’d rebound again like before. But this time… he didn’t.
We tried everything we knew to do. But we also knew, deep down, that sometimes the kindest thing is also the hardest.
We made the decision to let him go—peacefully, gently, and surrounded by care.
Loss on the Homestead
This wasn’t our first goodbye, and it won’t be the last. But it never gets easier. These animals, even the ones not meant to be pets, still work their way into your days and your heart. You get to know their rhythms, their sounds, their quirks. You learn what they love. And when they’re gone, it leaves a space behind.
Doofy was the sweetest of all of our new birds. He would come running up to us and you could tell the admiration he had for us. We’ve had some hard animal losses before, and this one was up there with them. He’s definitely got a place in our hearts forever as one of the sweetest geese we’ve ever had the pleasure of interacting with.
Sometimes I think people picture farm life as just chores and eggs and mud. But it’s more than that—it’s connection. It’s stewardship. And sometimes, it’s grief.
Holding Space for Both
We’ll keep going, like always. The rest of the flock still needs care. The garden still needs weeding. Life moves on. But we’ll carry this little goose-shaped ache with us for a while.
Because he mattered. And we’ll remember him.