Goat Moon
Coming home last night to a baby goat in the house was a complete thrill for William, and unanticipated but not terribly surprising for me. Goats have been a constant on our farm since we settled down in Arkansas. They were the first kind of livestock we purchased - two dairy nannies with their three kids. Eleven years later, we have a lively and growing herd of meat goats who tend to start kidding just when it gets good and cold.
We rarely have problems with the kids getting too cold. Warm huts lined with straw and the warm bodies of their mamas usually is enough to see the kids through, so a baby in the house was new for William. He pet the buckling's head as it lay in a plastic bin wrapped in blankets with a couple hot water bottles. It was a triplet born two days ago that had somehow been left out in the cold. It wasn't nursing, wouldn't take a bottle, and its likelihood of survival low. But William doesn't know about odds - he ran around getting it toys to play with when it got better, and a stuffed heart to snuggle with. Taiya asked if we could name it and I said if it survived the night, we could. Until then we'd just call it 1-C, as its ear tag designates.
I felt my mother-of-infant instincts reawaken, and I snuggled it, rubbed it all over, tried to give it tiny sips of milk, and even sang it a little song I always sung to my human babies to settle them down. But it had just gotten too cold. When Jeremy and I woke up at 5:30 the next morning, it was dead. "At least it died comfortable," Jeremy said to comfort me. He took it with him when he went to milk the nanny and give the other two kids bottles to make sure they were getting enough to eat. As I made coffee and packed lunches, I dreaded having to tell William that the little guy didn't make it. He has such a soft heart, I knew there would be tears and talk of the afterlife. I just wasn't prepared to make up answers to questions about where goats go when they die, as if I know.
Jeremy got back as the sky was just starting to lighten with another cold baby goat that needed warming, 1-C's sister. Luckily (or unluckily, if you are 1-C) we had a ready spot for it. We tucked it in and got it warming. This little doeling was much stronger than its brother, even if it was lethargic and cold. When it bleated and woke William up, he ran down to help feed it. Taiya heard it too, and yelled from her cozy bed upstairs, "Daddy, did the goat make it through the night?" Jeremy, savvy parent that he is, answered, "William is down here feeding a goat," a not-quite-a-lie parents resort to in times like these. Both kids had all-white fur, so William hadn't noticed a difference. Taiya remembered what I had said the night before and shouted, "That means you can name it, William! What are you going to name it?" And William, the sweet mysterious soul that he is said without hesitation, "Moon."
All day I hoped Moon would make it, poor thing. I hoped it would spring back to life on bounding legs, ears flopping. I hoped I could put off the conversation about farm animal death. Taiya and William understand that we turn animals into meat and they both happily gobble up that meat. It is different, though, when a little one dies before it can even get a start in the world. A little one that you've gotten to pet, brought toys to, sung to. I sure hoped this was a waxing Moon, but I am sad to report that its little light has flickered out. Tomorrow we will go see the baby goats that are doing well and hope that it makes this loss a little less sorrowful.
We rarely have problems with the kids getting too cold. Warm huts lined with straw and the warm bodies of their mamas usually is enough to see the kids through, so a baby in the house was new for William. He pet the buckling's head as it lay in a plastic bin wrapped in blankets with a couple hot water bottles. It was a triplet born two days ago that had somehow been left out in the cold. It wasn't nursing, wouldn't take a bottle, and its likelihood of survival low. But William doesn't know about odds - he ran around getting it toys to play with when it got better, and a stuffed heart to snuggle with. Taiya asked if we could name it and I said if it survived the night, we could. Until then we'd just call it 1-C, as its ear tag designates.
Jeremy got back as the sky was just starting to lighten with another cold baby goat that needed warming, 1-C's sister. Luckily (or unluckily, if you are 1-C) we had a ready spot for it. We tucked it in and got it warming. This little doeling was much stronger than its brother, even if it was lethargic and cold. When it bleated and woke William up, he ran down to help feed it. Taiya heard it too, and yelled from her cozy bed upstairs, "Daddy, did the goat make it through the night?" Jeremy, savvy parent that he is, answered, "William is down here feeding a goat," a not-quite-a-lie parents resort to in times like these. Both kids had all-white fur, so William hadn't noticed a difference. Taiya remembered what I had said the night before and shouted, "That means you can name it, William! What are you going to name it?" And William, the sweet mysterious soul that he is said without hesitation, "Moon."
All day I hoped Moon would make it, poor thing. I hoped it would spring back to life on bounding legs, ears flopping. I hoped I could put off the conversation about farm animal death. Taiya and William understand that we turn animals into meat and they both happily gobble up that meat. It is different, though, when a little one dies before it can even get a start in the world. A little one that you've gotten to pet, brought toys to, sung to. I sure hoped this was a waxing Moon, but I am sad to report that its little light has flickered out. Tomorrow we will go see the baby goats that are doing well and hope that it makes this loss a little less sorrowful.
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