Frostie the baby Snow Goat, who was born with a life-threatening infection that forced him to use two wheels for his back legs, has died. He lived a good life as a goat, a goat who was also part wheelchair.
Frostie, you were a goat with a bad infection. And then you were a goat with wheels attached to your legs, which made you the object of many people's affection because no one—not even one person—had seen anything cuter than you. Your wheels squeaked like you, Frostie, which is the sound we heard when you ran right into our hearts, where you lived, infection and all, until you died.
But there was a time when you were free from the shackles of your wheelchair cart, and those, Frostie, were your best days. You bleated with joy during those days, and our hearts also bleated with joy to see you running around Australia, where something weird as you really belonged. You looked happy in your surroundings then, Frostie, running through the bucolic fields of some place in Australia that we never really knew because that is very, very far away. You know, we never really knew you either, Frostie, but your eyes communicated a lot.
"Get me out of this fucking wheelchair," you said, with your eyes.
With perseverance and commitment, you lived three full days without your wheelchair apparatus. But the infection overcame you. You were only a pee-wee snow goat and the disease was much stronger.
You are survived by Leon Trotsky the pig, who lent you the wheelchair cart in the first place, and everyone at Edgar's Mission, who found many more words than I to describe what you gave to this world.
I know that the passage of time will diminish the pain my heart is feeling right now, but nothing will ever diminish my beautiful happy memories of a joyful, cheeky and chatty little white goat who the world came to know and love as Frostie the Snow Goat.
You're dead now. You always looked really soft. And wow were you cute.
Rest in peace.