A Little Miracle Named Dobby: When Hope Seemed Lost on the Ranch

Last October, our ranch welcomed new life in the sweetest way. Two of our pregnant Nigerian Dwarf goats, Mimi and Moe, gave birth just weeks apart. Moe delivered triplets first, healthy and bouncy, and three weeks later Mimi brought twins into the world. For the first month, everything felt like a storybook: the kids nursed eagerly, tumbled over each other in the hay, and grew strong under their devoted mothers’ care. The triplets were full of mischief, and Mimi’s twins—especially the bigger one we named Hooligan—lived up to his name. He’d bounce off the walls, leap into the hay feeder, and race around like a tiny goat rocket.

But little Dobby, the smallest twin, was different. While Hooligan zoomed with endless energy, Dobby preferred quiet corners, curled snug in the hay, sleeping more than playing. As November turned to December, we noticed he wasn’t growing like his brother. He moved less, seemed weaker, and we worried he wasn’t getting enough from Mimi. We started holding her steady so both twins could nurse in peace, hoping that would help.

Then came the night that changed everything. Mid-December, right before Christmas, I went out after feeding the horses to check on the goats as usual. There, in the hay, lay Dobby on his side—semi-motionless, barely responding. His mom and brother were fine, but Dobby was fading fast. My heart sank. I scooped him up without hesitation and brought him inside. We set up a cozy little pen in the kitchen, started bottle-feeding him, and kept him warm. But he barely took the bottle, nibbling tiny amounts before going limp again. Soon he couldn’t even sit up; his legs wouldn’t move, his feet were cold, and he lay motionless on his side.

I was terrified we’d lose him. One evening, just days before Christmas, I sat in the pen with him on my lap, the Christmas tree lights twinkling nearby, the house warm and cozy while the world outside was cold. He felt so fragile. I prayed hard, asking God for grace—either to take him peacefully or to heal him if that was His plan. I surrendered it all, tears streaming down my face, feeling helpless.

We filmed a quick video around the house showing our dogs curled up asleep, the holiday warmth—and there was Dobby in his pen, lying still on his side. If you pause the frame, you can see how quiet he was. Each day, I dreaded the conversation with Val about making the hardest call. On the Tuesday before Christmas, after talking it over, I called the vet and scheduled euthanasia for the Friday after the holiday.

But life had other plans. Val had unknowingly booked a delivery that same Friday while out of town, so I had to cancel. Dobby stayed warm, comfortable, sipping a little here and there. Deep down, I clung to hope for a miracle before rescheduling.

I’d tried everything I knew—years of raising sheep, goats, horses, and hounds had taught us a lot about animal care in all kinds of weather and health challenges. But nothing was working. Then I reached out to a close friend in Nebraska who raises goats. She listened to Dobby’s symptoms and shared a simple remedy they’d used for weak newborns: two common items from the feed store and grocery store. I doubted a small nutritional tweak could help a kid too weak to lift his head or open his eyes, but I drove out immediately and tried it.

That Sunday night—New Years Eve’s eve, the day before the rescheduled vet visit—I gave him the treatment. Monday morning, I couldn’t believe my eyes: Dobby was sitting up in his pen, looking right at me. From paralyzed and nearly unconscious to alert in less than 24 hours. I called the vet in tears of joy to cancel again. He started devouring his bottle, energy surging back minute by minute. His little personality sparkled again—those cute “baas” and bleats I’d missed so much. Wobbly at first, he stood to nibble hay. It was nothing short of a miracle.

We knew reuniting him with Mimi after so long might not work—she might not accept him. So Dobby became part of our indoor family. He follows me like a shadow, thinks he’s one of the wolfhounds, and joins us on little hikes. He’ll sneak up and poke my legs with his tiny horns (never hard, just playful), raid the pantry for cookies if I turn my back, and curl up in his sunny outdoor pen during the day—though he can’t wait to come inside in the evenings.

Dobby’s story reminds me that miracles happen, often when we’ve exhausted every option and placed it in God’s hands. With 20 years of animal experience, we’ve learned we don’t know everything—and that’s okay. Friends’ advice, persistence, and a little faith can change everything.

He’s our little house goat now, cozy and loved, a living reminder: when hope feels lost, hold on. Miracles still walk among us—sometimes on four tiny hooves.

(We’d love to share the video of his first little hike with the wolfhounds—watch his transformation from death’s door to bounding with joy. It’s hard to believe this vibrant little guy was motionless just months ago.)