Here & there: What baby goats can teach us

White and brown goat standing on brown soil, February 29, 2020, location unknown | Photo by Roberto Moreno via Scopio, St. George News

FEATURE — This spring, like many others, my family headed up Preston, Idaho for a little baby goat action.

Baby goats, location unknown, May 22, 2021 | Photo by Samuel Gauthier via Scopio, St. George News

My sister-in-law and her family have a homestead just outside of town. I’ve written about their enterprise before. They grow organic alfalfa in fields nearby, vegetables in garden boxes on the edge of their property by the Bear River, collect stone fruit off the trees that flank the same river, and tend several different kinds of animals: Yaks, mules, cow, bunnies, dogs, chickens and goats.

Their homesteading life is a constant marvel to me. It is enormously hard and gratifying work; they live in harmony with their land and on what they produce.

We, their city dwelling kin, get to visit regularly, enjoy the fruit and the eggs they send home with us, and play with their animals.

The goats, bunnies and mules are my boys’ favorites. Especially the goats.

Although, the mules are a close second. They have each had at least one wild, bareback riding experience on several of the mules which have gone down in family lore and of which they are very proud.

Somewhere in our video files, we have evidence of their glory. I can’t watch. Even though I know they survived relatively unharmed, I’m still sure that one of these days, the video will reveal some new, previously hidden truth about another way they could have died or been grievously injured.

Mule throws its rider, location unknown, July 22, 2021 | Photo by Andrii Omelnytskyi via Scopio, St. George News

They all, in turn, think it’s great fun. Especially reliving all the ways they could have been grievously injured. They love to torment me.

But the goats are universal favorites – theirs and mine – because the goats have babies every spring and those kids are so stinking cute.

My sister-in-law is gracious enough to alert us when the new kids are ready for visitors. As soon as we have word, we make haste up I-15 to get our fix.

This year, I was out of town visiting my college freshman in Indiana when word came so my husband and two boys answered the call alone. I saw the videos after the fact, and they were almost as good as being there.

To get to my sister-in-law’s goats, you must first cross through the line of poultry. The homestead has a couple of “big, badass roosters,” as my husband describes them, they act as sentries to the inner sanctum of the goat pens. They take their job very seriously. You can’t look them in the eye or your resolve withers; the next thing you know you’re back pedaling toward the metal gate and away from the goats.

But the goats always seem to bleat an encouraging note just at the right moment and you steel yourselves past the rooster guards.

Once in the outdoor goat pen, it’s ample and pleasant. This year, my boys were rewarded for their bravery with two delightful kids from one litter. Another litter – too little yet – was still tucked safely in the nearby covered pen.

The two older kids, even at their relatively young age, already seemed sturdy, with little nubbins for horns. They both had spindly legs but somehow seemed sure footed. My husband took to examining their hooves more closely, amazed by the kids’ dexterity, and was surprised by how grippy they were. Later, he told me, “You’d think they’d be slick, but no, they’re like slightly harder pads on a dog’s foot, or like a really tough fingerprint.”

Goat kid, location unknown, May 22, 2021 | Photo by Samuel Gauthier via Scopio, St. George News

Then, came the best part: feeding time. Each in turn, bottle fed the two kids. The slightly bigger brother took the bottle immediately and savaged it. He slurped and sucked – within twenty seconds the bottle was empty.

His little sister, in stature if not officially by birth order, however, struggled.

She was every bit as eager as her brother to get at the warm milk being offered, but she didn’t quite have the knack. Every time she tried to latch, her cute, pink tongue would slide out the corner of her mouth and wag alongside the nipple as she sucked. Almost as much milk dribbled down her hairy chin and onto the ground as did go in her belly.

This only made my boys and husband want to feed her more. Want to protect her more.

“You had to be more patient with that one, mom,” my youngest explained to me. “Because if you didn’t, then she wouldn’t get as much to eat as her brother and then she’ll just keep getting smaller and smaller. We couldn’t let her fall behind like that.”

Even if only for an afternoon.

So, they stayed and patiently fed the female kid until their arms ached and their crossed legs tingled. And until she was satisfied.

Hearing their tales when they – and I – returned made me yet again marvel at my sister-in-law’s homesteading life. And of the lessons her way of life constantly teach my children. Again and again.

Teachings of joy. Teachings of new life. Teachings of wild adventure. And teachings of patience. As taught by a baby goat who couldn’t quite latch.

Copyright St. George News, SaintGeorgeUtah.com LLC, 2022, all rights reserved.

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