Advice from an Old Goat

Sylvie

Where are you going, as I stand here behind wise eyes that watch you as you pass?
And what is it you are looking for?
I used to be your favorite, you know, your first.
I remember the hours we spent each day together sitting in this field.
It hardly seems like fourteen years.
And all the time, you never seemed to mind the green-trimmed holes I chewed in your t-shirts, or the way I marked you as my own with rubbings against your knee.
We jumped and climbed... and frolicked beneath a blue sky, you and I.
And you brought me goldenrod.
I know…
Life.




Others younger have come and gone.
Bigger and bolder—in every way they made sure I knew my place was always to be the very last.



Once a dozen, now we are just three.
But who would have thought I would be queen?
I know…
Life.



Stop a while and sit with me.
Marvel at my soft and gentle lips, the whorl of hair on my forehead, the brushed-bare black of my knees.
Let me untie your shoes and wipe the sweat from your brow.

You will find the sun of an autumn afternoon to be of the most perfect kind.
Crickets are singing from the grasses of the field.
We can rest together beneath the wide blue sky.
And you can bring me goldenrod.

What a goat knows (SWF)

Autumn Grasses

The heat has cycled on, blowing the first warm breeze of the morning into a darkened room, which, though the clock has declared an hour past sunrise, the dimness outside denies.
A thick, gray cloud hides the Cold Moon.

Yesterday, in an effort to soak in the last warm afternoon before a stretch of colder ones arrive, I walked the field, drawing in the clean, autumn air with each long stride. And stood looking out from the woods’ edge at my favorite spot to stop.

October Barn

From here, the big, old barn looks small.
Phoebes and tree swallows gone, the field seems very empty.
But, I remember a sky, thick with butterflies, before the goldenrod faded to brown.

Summer Fawn

And how the deer, too, would linger in this spot, looking out from the safety of the woods.
Behind me, fallen leaves rustle with the slow and cautious steps of the same, whose footprints I see left on the ground beside my own. I am careful to move slowly along in this season, knowing that those I rouse will circle back and reclaim the space as I leave it. Hoping they won’t, instead, fearfully bound away and on to the next field.

Edie
pygmy goat

Behind the tall grass, resting in the pasture, are our goats, now just six.
These days for them, too, are all about drinking it in--contentedly waiting...and chewing things over.
And cycles that remind us that butterflies will fly again—soon.

happy goat

See more Skywatch here.

Savoring spring

Spring skies that roll past overhead


have yielded beautiful blues...and greens--





You must bury
your nose in it.




Tear mouthfuls
of delightfully
tender sprouts.






And absorb the scent of warming earth.









From winter's shelter,
life springs forth into sunshine.
Lovely, delicious.

Observers

If goats could speak, the tales they'd tell.

The family

We have goats, pygmy goats.

They're fairly old, as goats go, and now they're "out to pasture." But, when our girls were younger, the goats were 4-H projects and a small breeding herd, as well as their best friends. When you live in the country, your closest playmate probably eats grass.





Lining up for the family portrait, we have:
Sylvie, Naomi, Edie, Boy, Kibby, Maggie and Chloe.

Pygmy goats have a "barrel-chest" that can make them appear fat, even though it's actually a desired shape. Their legs are short and sturdy, unlike the miniature goats that are more fine-boned and smaller in scale.

We have just the 6 females now, and one wether (neutered male). At one time, we had a total of 13 in the herd.
Bo, was our breeding buck--a handsome, but smelly, black, registered pygmy. He'd begun to struggle to get around--a debilitating stiffness (arthritis?) in his back legs. But, the warmth of the summer sun and a deep green pasture made him very happy. Last fall, we wondered if we should have him put down before the cold of winter set in. We never had to make that decision. Bo died peacefully in his stall, just as the summer days were ending. It was his time.

Chloe has now developed the same hip trouble. Bo was her father--probably a hereditary fault he's passed on to her. Her mother, Aggie, highest ranking female, died shortly after her birth, and, with no one to stand up for her, Chloe dropped to the bottom of the herd. She ended up being bottle-raised, and, for a while, used a litter pan in the kitchen. There's nothing more endearing than a baby goat--and Chloe, little hooves skittering on the kitchen floor, was a classic!
Chloe


Edie's her half sister, daughter of Aggie and Obie. Aggie was a very light caramel, and Obie a light gray agouti, explaining Edie's white appearance. Edie leads the herd. Edie also demands attention, as you can see.Edie



Sylvie's one of the oldest goats we have now. This summer, she'll be eleven. I always wanted a goat, for as long as I can remember. Sylvie's "my" goat.
Her daughter, Kibby, was also bottle-raised, because Sylvie didn't recognize her as her own. The birth was difficult, twins-- and Sylvie sat, looking sort of stunned, while I revived the one living kid, Kibby. I brought Kibby to work at the library with me for 2 weeks--keeping her in a straw-lined crate in the back of my van, and preparing a bottle for her on my break. The little gray goat, with the white blaze and the black stockings was loved by many.
Kibby

Our barn, with 3 goat pastures behind it--and the phoebe on the fence.
The goats are old goats now, and we expect we'll lose the rest of them one by one over the next few years. Green pastures, blue skies, and scratches on the forehead until then.