“Look, it’s coming out in a plastic bag!”
Julie, my wide-eyed daughter of three, points and absorbs the wonder of a goat being born in a protective placenta. Her eyes widen farther as two more “plastic-wrapped” kids emerge from Lily, the laboring mother.
The triplets struggle on wobbly legs as Lily, who is lame, pulls the “plastic” away. She rasp-cleans their kinky hair with her tongue, and nudges them with mother love.
“Looks like we’ve got two boys and a girl,” Julie’s dad, Alan, announces after a cursory examination.
“I’m going to call the girl Lizzie,” Julie screeches and claps her hands. “And Benji’s the boy,” she adds with equal gusto.
The third nameless goat is bigger than the others and assumes the immediate position of leader–butting his smaller siblings aside for the first meal. Since Julie has exhausted her name bank, I offer “Frisky” as a name for the bossy goat.
We had moved from a city of fifty thousand to the peace and calm of a Minnesota farm so that Alan, a university professor, could devote a year to writing. He also wanted our two children–eight-year-old Mark and Julie—to experience farm life as had experienced that life as a child.
In addition to the three new goats and their mother, we acquired Festus, a castrated male, known as a wether. His sole purpose in life was that of a companion to the others. Since he had no other mission, he soon learned to be naughty. If the water bucket was tipped, we knew Festus had been at work. If I was butted from behind while doing barn chores, I would turn to find Festus with head downcast aiming for a second jab at my rear.
A flock of chickens warmed the southwest corner of the barn, ruled by a cocky rooster who kept all the hens in line. They were our egg supply. Lily, the mamma goat, became our milk wagon.
Sam and Pepper, two cross-bred border collie/Norwegian elk hounds guarded our farm house. Outside dogs, they wintered in a bale house, but patrolled for stray squirrels and errant snakes on summer days. A muzzle full of quills also tattled their venture into porcupine territory.
Each winter morning, I bundled Julie into her teal snowsuit, boots, and pulled a scarlet stocking cap over her blond pony tails. Alan would grab a bucket, while Julie latched onto his free hand. Together, flanked by Sam and Pepper, they tromped a snow trail to the barn. Sheltered inside, they fed the chickens, let Festus loose for his mischievous romp, milked Lily, bottle fed Lizzie, Benji, and Frisky.
We gossiped about our goat “folks” when Alan and Julie returned to the house.
“What devilish thing did Festus do today?” I’d ask.
“Did Lily tip the bucket before you finished milking her?”
“Did Benji chew Julie’s boot laces again?”
And so winter passed.
Summer took us away from the farm more often, but Julie perpetuated her play with her friends, Lizzie, Benji, and Frisky. Taller now, the goats tried to pull barrettes from her hair. They teased and played tag with her through open areas of yellow clover. Her pale hair blew in the wind as the trio of pearly goats ran with her.
Her closeness to the animals was evident in her night-time prayers: “God bless Daddy, Mommy, Mark, Lily, Festus, Lizzie, Benji, Frisky, Sam, Pepper, all the chickens (and sometimes her dead moth collection). Come-in” (her version of Amen).
Our year at the farm ended too soon. We had to move back to town and the livelihood that sustained us. Our attachment to the animals, however, remained a worry. The dogs, now dubbed our “squirrel patrol,” wouldn’t survive chained in our back yard after roaming many acres. Where would they find cows to torment? And skunks to tease?
