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“There’s a goat in the kitchen
sink”, my husband proclaimed one evening upon returning home from work. “Really? How interesting,” was my nonchalant reply from behind a copy of Goat Rancher magazine. I sipped from my mug of hot sweet tea. “It seems to be complaining, quite loudly. I think it wants out. Why is there a goat in the kitchen sink? Don’t you think you’d better return it to its mother?” I considered my response carefully. “I hadn’t noticed anyone complaining. She’s just greeting you enthusiastically. She doesn’t have a mother anymore.” I hoped to generate enough sympathy to forestall any inquiries about his nonexistent supper. “Yeah, that’s fine, but why the kitchen sink?,” he demanded, “and – Hey! This goat has no ears! What happened to its ears?” I didn’t have a good answer for those two items, but I thought I might be home free on the supper issue. No such luck- he turned to the cold stove, then peered over my Goat Rancher with a furrowed brow. “Eggs, darling; we have plenty of fresh eggs,” I tried to reassure him. “That’s fine,” he growled, “and the goat can wash the dishes.” I finished my delightful mug of tea, and went to the fridge to scrounge for a beer behind about sixteen dozen eggs. I didn’t really want a beer, but I really needed the empty bottle. Most people who know me know my feelings about bottle babies. I’ve certainly bellowed it from the rooftops loud and often. After ten years of raising dairy goats, with every baby a bottle baby, I don’t do bottle babies anymore. The very morning my poor husband came home to find his kitchen sink occupied by a goat, I had just recited the entire litany to my dear friends, and ever present help in kidding trouble, the Keblingers of 7A+ Ranch (and we all know Cathie’s feelings about bottle babies). A goat is expected to raise all the kids she hatches around here, and help from me comes in a feed bucket, not a bottle. I refuse to milk another goat. I refuse to fuss with bottles and nipples and formula. Babies raised on powdered formula grow up weedy. I refuse to make repeated trips out to the barn during the day to feed a baby after I have spent the entire night making repeated trips out to the barn to catch a baby. It is this last whim of the will which has resulted in the great season of excitement around the Peterson household. I refused to consider the implications of an orphan. I sure have been spending a bit of time recently milking first one Boer goat, and then another, trying to filch enough milk to mix with that formula stuff. Cathie Keblinger will be having the last laugh for years to come, but she wasn’t laughing that morning because she couldn’t help me. The mother in question was beyond anyone’s help when the veterinarian produced this tiny slimeball from the mangled wreckage her mother’s innards. He helped me sling up the LaMancha cross doe long enough to milk about a half gallon of colostrum (God is good, all the time), offered the goat a $25 injection, and wished us all well. He drove away leaving me with a hundred twenty five pounds of dead goat, and three and one half pounds of earless wonder. Hallelujah! I warm up my baby goats in the kitchen sink because it’s convenient. The shelf above is the perfect height to hang a lamp. It’s close to my teapot. I can supervise the schoolroom while I warm up a cold kid. This kid was cold too, but she looked up at me with her wondrous little eyes and shoved her nose under my chin to butt for milk and I didn’t feel cold at all. Then she reached up and grabbed my nose with all her strength of conviction and started sucking away at it and such a flood of warmth and mystery overcame me that I knew with all my soul that I was truly a goner. Oh, man, three and one half pounds of precious, itty bitty, baby ain’t livin’ out in no barn all by her lonesome orphaned self wit’ no mama to keep her safe, warm and say her prayers!  Thus did Fifi the housegoat come into our lives. It was obvious from the beginning that Fifi
had a strong will to live and a cooperative spirit. This is probably why
she is still alive too, given the misunderstandings that can occur when
two species (say, a man and a woman, or a man and a goat) occupy a common
space. “Hey Mom, do you want me to take that little rat back to the barn for you?” my daughter asked. “She’s warm, dry and yelling to get out of the sink”. Emily and Rose gawked at me as I explained that the poor little baby goat couldn’t possibly survive out in the barn by herself. She was too small. She would be discriminated against because of her ears. This little baby was going to live in the house with us. In twelve years of living in the house with me, my kids (two legged) have heard of lot of strange things, but I could tell by their faces that this really took the cake. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mother, you can’t keep a goat in the house! They’re highly destructive. Who’s going to clean up after it? It’s unsanitary.” Emily carped. “Dad’s not going to like this, not one bit,” Rose solemnly warned. “He’ll get over it. You’ll all get over it. Watch the baby. I’m going to town for diapers.” Living with a baby goat in the house is not for the faint of heart. It’s strange when you’ve been out of the diaper and bottle groove for eleven years. The first week was like having a newborn two-year-old; she was helpless, stupid, and able to travel at lighting speed. Like any two year old worth its salt she shows that speed when she sees you coming at her with a diaper. O.K.- she’s not so stupid. There’s an art to putting a diaper on a goat. It’s all about how you cut the hole for the tail. For a newborn goat, wearing preemie sized diapers, you have to cut the tail-hole about one quarter of the diaper length from the waistband. As the goat grows into larger size diapers, you gradually shift the hole towards the center of the contrivance to keep everything balanced out. Goats have no hips to speak of, to actually hold a diaper on, so it all rides on the tail. “Is that a goat on your lap? At the dinner table? Are you sure that’s a good example for the children?” fired my darling spouse at me. “How are your eggs, love?” I smiled sweetly. “It’s just a baby goat. I can’t put her down. She’s asleep. You don’t want to wake up the baby, do you?” Darling spouse looks to his daughters for support. “Do you all see where this is heading? No good will come of it, mark my words. Your mother was raised in a barn, and now she’s doing the same to you.” “Yes Father,” replies Emily resignedly. “I told you so,” mutters Rose under her breath. Baby goat raises her head, smacks her lips and slithers to the floor. Her admiring gaze rests on the Paterfamilia. She squats and wiggles her tail. “That goat’s naked! Grab her, stop her, throw her out! Why is there a naked goat in my house!” Well, even preemie size clothes are big on a three and one half pound goat. There was no question about it- the baby was going to sleep in our room. There was no argument, not even a whimper. The Man of the House was too overcome (for the moment) to question it. I fixed up a laundry basket at the side of my bed and called to the little goat in my most meaningful goat-speak. She trotted over immediately, closely followed by Lulu, my Shih Tzu. Lulu is a highly maternal creature herself who takes charge of all small creatures around the place who might need a snuggle, a bath, or any other motherly attention. “Look Honey,” I crowed, “she comes when she’s called”. Honey chose his next words carefully. “Good girl, Fifi. Good night.” Lulu approved the basket; baby was settled happily within, and we turned out the lights. Sometime during the night I reached my hand into the basket and plucked my Fifi up onto my pillow. Stretching and yawning, she didn’t wake up. Lulu woke up though, and wiggled up from Hubby’s feet onto his pillow to make sure it wasn’t just a bad dream. Poor Hubby! You’d think a hard working man could get a good night’s sleep in his own bed. I returned baby Fifi to her basket. She never woke up, but unfortunately, she never forgot. It was soon apparent that Fifi considered herself a puppy. She spends her days nestled in Lulu’s basket of stuffed toys. She goes outside with the dogs, squats on the lawn, and comes back in. Eureka! If timing is everything, you can housebreak a goat! If I put the goat out immediately after meals and upon awakening, I can eliminate quite a few diapers. This is a good thing, because Fifi is now at that toddler stage where she pulls her diaper off every time I turn around. “Jeanie, get some clothes on that goat!” “Mom, take that thing to the barn where she belongs. What will the neighbors say when they find out?” “Mother, Fifi ate my math lesson.” “Mom, Fifi ate your mortgage statement.” “Uh, gee, Honey, I think Fifi ate your landowner preference point voucher…” “Hi Jeanie, I just thought I’d call and let you know, Lulu is sitting over here at my front door with her squeaky ball and a stuffed pig. It looks like she’s moving in.” “Will someone please remove that goat from the coffee table. We are having a deacon’s meeting in here.” Thus it appeared that the tide was turning against us. Just imagine all the fun a goat could have living in your house. Just imagine explaining to people why you have a goat in your house. Just imagine your mother-in-law on the phone asking “Is that a goat I hear in your kitchen?” I resolved that Fifi would graduate to day-care out in the barn, but her nights must still be spent at my bedside, warm and safe. Well, she can go to day-care if it’s a warm sunny day, but not if it’s cold and windy. Those shenannygans on the coffee table never clued me in. Now where do you think is a goat’s favorite place to be? On the floor? Hah! That goat-that-thinks-she’s-a-puppy is now sleeping on the bed. “Why is that goat sleeping on my bed?” demanded Mr.P., the corner of his eye twitching wildy. “Because she can dear, because she can. Move over Lulu, and give Daddy a little more room” Last Sunday afternoon I tiptoed into the bedroom to find The Man, Lulu, Fifi sans diaper, and an itinerant barn cat all heaped up asleep on the bed. Where is my camera when I need it most!!! I gently removed the cat. I don’t care for cats in the house. Lulu followed me out and we found something else to do, leaving Daddy and Fifi at peace. Later that night I was cozy on my own side of the bed when The Man slipped in on his side. “AAARRRRGH!!! There’s a big WET spot in my BED!” Not a rote bedtime prayer. “Take it OUT, OUT to the barn, NOW, if you want it to live. Get dressed and take it OUT RIGHT NOW!” Fifi popped her head up out of her laundry basket while Lulu slunk under the bed. I pulled jeans on over my jammies and made a hasty retreat with my puppy-goat. It seems we’d been routed. We’ve had a run of mild nights, and at twenty three pounds, Fifi the bottle goat probably wasn’t going to freeze to death under a heat lamp. I left her bewildered in a little stall of her own, with all the tears and trepidation a mother experiences when sending her baby off to college. Then I went back in to salvage the bedding and the marriage. The Man was right; it was time for Fifi to become a goat. Wednesday night Mr. Peterson came home from work. “What’s for dinner, Mom?” “Eggs, darling, we have lots of eggs,” I pouted. “Hey”, he chirped “It’s getting cold outside. Wind’s shifted to the north. Why is it so quiet around here anyway?” I sulked through cream cheese-and-tomato omelets, and dishes afterwards. At bedtime I was curled under fresh clean quilts with a book. No husband appeared to turn out the lights on me. I listened hard. The girls were in bed. The dogs were in. I waited intently. Then, the sound of a door slamming, a scuffle, and the joyful pitter-patter of little hooves running across the hardwood floors to my door. Fifi! My darling little Fifi and my Darling Husband had both returned to me! After firmly installing Fifi’s diaper and depositing her into her laundry basket for the third time, I turned to The Master of This House. “What made you change your mind? I dared to ask. “ It’s really cold out there tonight,” he explained. “I’d hate to see her ears freeze.” Copyright |