Baby Goats!

After weeks of watching for signs of imminent birth, Fancy was the first to go. The C.F. had just finished laying the last blocks for our house—a momentous occasion of its own accord—and we were standing back admiring our walls, imagining the home that will take shape within them, when we heard the unmistakable cry of a newborn goat. A clear, bell of a cry somewhere between bluejay and baby. I went running down to the barn to find three baby goats, wet with afterbirth, lying in the hay, with their mother licking and bleating.

The C.F. followed close behind, and we carried the triplets inside, Fancy following, and penned them all up in a small warm pen with clean straw. They did just what they were supposed to do—Fancy licked them until they were dry. They started wobbling around on their tiny legs and found her udder. She had two boys and a girl. We have named the boys Biscuits and Gravy, and the girl Lucerne. Doris had her kids a couple days later: twin girls, named Dottie and Peekaboo (after the skier Peekaboo Street, as it was snowy that weekend).

I am amazed every year how fast they go from snoozy newborns to spry, playful creatures. On the second day of the triplets’ life, Lucerne was already jumping all over her brothers. Now that they are two weeks old, they are testing how high they can jump. They try to jump straight up the sides of the walls, clumping their little hooves against the plywood. Climbing over each other. Running along some cedar logs that are lying in their pen. It’s like they come with springs in their legs. It’s like they are pogo sticks incarnate. It’s like the world is their trampoline.