We Can See Clearly Now—A Tribute to Ralphy

So let us tell you about little Ralph—Ralphy. Ralphy came into our world when he was delivered to us in a box in a Bendigo carpark. A cheery, wee slip of a LaMancha kid goat who tipped the scales at just 3 kilos of black fur brushed with the whitest of white patches—and full of an enormous spirit.

What he lacked in size, he more than made up for in presence, as his personality glowed vibrant. It filled every room and reached up the curtains until it danced on the roof.

And he had those tiny elf-like ears. But it wasn’t just his looks that caused us to become so enraptured by him. It was him—all of him.

The way his visionless eyes saw the world, much like the blind Duke of Gloucester—feelingly. The way he tilted his head skyward as if he was drawing breath from the stars. The way he melted into our arms as two became one.

And then there was his bottle, his greatest joy in life. His tongue would wriggle to life the second it sensed the teat. Twitching like a child’s fingers set to unwrap their big shiny Christmas present. Even the passing of each day could not diminish his joy for this. Nor ours in witnessing it.

We knew early on, though, there was more to Ralphy’s story than his blindness. Specialists confirmed he had detached retinas: a condition he had from birth. One, too, that was sadly irreversible.

A challenge, yes—but insurmountable, no. We’ve walked the path with sightless animals before and watched them navigate their path to a meaningful life. Ralphy, we determined, would simply join their ranks.

But our instincts told us there was something else going on. And so too did Ralphy’s painful cries. A heart-wrenching pain that we were not able to reach. He was not simply a little goat hungry for a meal.

And then the CT scan gave us those words we did not want to hear—but the ones we had to heed. Ralphy’s spine was compromised at the junction of his neck and back. This, we learned, was the likely cause of his blindness, something that may have happened in the womb and was only going to get irreversibly worse.

Silence fell and our hearts fell heavier. We had but one humane and loving choice.

And so, on 28 July 2025, that is exactly the one we took. Cradled in love, Ralphy finally found peace. And our vision once again blurred.

“Ralphy. Ralphy. Ralphy.”

We say those words as if they have the power to magically summon you back. But we know they will not. They cannot. Another world has you now. But we have your memories.

And no one can take them away.

Memories of you on our laps, cuddled with your favourite teddy—you know, the funny cream and brown striped one that looks more like a seal than a bear, your little tongue dancing its perfect dance, your fluffy little legs shuffling along as your body shouted, “Look mumma, I got dis.”

You did have it, little Ralphy. And you gave it to us.

You showed us that true strength lies not in what or who we can control, but in vulnerability. Someone once said of your kind, “The powerless are precious.” But they were wrong. You were powerful. So, so powerful, because you reminded us of who we’re meant to be.

And when we come to know this, we can see clearly how wrong our kind has been.

Godspeed, little Ralphy. Godspeed.