Gotcher Goat?

Scarcely had a blessing been asked on our food (a standard precaution with my Mother’s cooking) than a loud sound, rather like boys using a milk pail for a pinata, attacked our ears. Startled, we stared across the table at each other for a moment, then all ran for the kitchen door.1

A cement path ran between the front and back yards, past the old workshop and cellar, and ended at the driveway. Dad had left the big blue Ford parked in the bright autumn afternoon with the goat tethered to the driver-side door handle, to be dealt with after dinner. We knew nothing about goats, but we were about to get an education.2

Dad and the goat faced-off now, for the first time. How to get her off the roof of the car without causing additional damage? A tug on the tether showed she would dig her hooves in, a threat to the paint job. She seemed to enjoy the hollow metallic booming as the sheet metal rebounded from dimpled pools under her hooves. She skillfully dodged Dad’s attempts to catch her with his reach from terra firma. No luck. She seemed to grin. He finally climbed onto the hood. His metallic booms, as he moved forward, were deeper than hers. Belly-down over the windshield, half on top of the roof, he had Mom untie the rope and hand it to him. Nanny was cornered, Dad was advancing. As though she suddenly found the game boring, she clattered onto the trunk, and nimbly hopped to the ground. Dad still held the rope, and she looked up at him as if to say, “My, you look silly up there!”3

After securely tying her to a post in the backyard, within reach of knee high weeds and clover beyond the rails, a phone call was placed to a certain kindly farmer. He expressed surprise. He thought it was common knowledge that goats are climbers, and naturally go to the highest point they can reach. If you tethered her to a car, you kept the lead length very short if you did not want her on top of that car! He had the ill grace to yield to loud laughter at the ‘city transplants’ expense.4

The generous farmer had lent us this goat free of charge. We badly needed goat milk to feed the sickly new baby brother, who tolerated neither Mother’s milk nor any formulas, but did well on goat milk. We could not afford the tinned goat milk in the grocery store. A friendly neighbor suggested we get in touch with this farmer. Yes, he had a milking goat he would lend us.5

There was a catch. This particular goat had mastitis, and the farmer specified a procedure that needed to be followed in milking her.6

The next morning started the ritual, and a daily battle of wills.7

After tethering her to the cellar door, Dad would bring steaming hot towels from the kitchen on a stick. These were wrapped around the goat’s udder and teats. After they had cooled some, they were removed and she was massaged with Bag Balm to work out the knots (milk trapped in tissues and lobes due to plugged ducts). Then she was wiped clean with a fresh washcloth, and the milking began.8

Not unreasonably, Snowflake (as we children dubbed her, for she was snowy white, except for some yellow in her beard) didn’t enjoy being wrapped in steaming towels. She shied away as far as her tether would let her. 9

Quite unreasonably (we thought), she would wait patiently until the milking was done, or nearly so, and then contrive to kick over or step into the milk pail.10

Dad prided himself on his intelligence. No goat was going to get the better of him!11

From the little workshop came the sound of the table saw and the smell of fresh sawdust. Dad built a large rectangular box of plywood, two feet wide, four feet long, and 6 inches tall. He secured four lengths of rope, for use as slipknots, inside of each corner. At first, the goat willingly clambered up. Each ankle was secured with a slipknot. No more kicking or stepping into the pail! She apparently accepted this new reality with resignation.12

This time, when he had finished milking, she dropped onto her haunches, submerging her hairy udder in the pail. Out splashed some of the precious milk! In trying to lever her out of the pail without more spillage, Dad forgot to steer clear of the other end, and she happily sunk her large, square, yellow teeth into his shoulder. At parting, she appeared to be the more satisfied of the two.13

The daily ritual continued, a wily, resentment-edged pas-de-deux.14

After much thought, Dad developed his trump card. A two-foot by four-foot board, cut down the middle, with half-ovals cut in each smaller board, about 1/4th the distance from the top. When held together, the completed oval was the size of a goat neck, with about ½ inch clearance on either side. The boards were mounted with hinges onto the milking box, and secured with a hook and eye latch. 15

New procedure: goat brought to box, ankles secured, neck secured, steaming towels applied, Bag Balm massage, washing, milking, full amount of milk without hair or mud delivered to kitchen.16

Snowflake’s imprisonment in this neck gear kept her from dropping onto her haunches or reaching back to bite the milker. She didn’t like it, but being a practical goat, saw there was nothing she could do about it.17

Perhaps as an honorific to a worthy opponent, my Dad appointed a sacrificial child to hold a pink plastic gallon pail of oats and windfall apples for Snowflake’s enjoyment while being milked. I spent many long hours looking into vindictive rectangular pupils and fidgeting. If my attention ever strayed far enough for my hands to start to follow, Snowflake would give me a hard nip. 18

I never could decide if her temper was nasty because of her mastitis, or if her nasty temper caused her milk to curdle inside her. I’m still not sure.19

The last day he milked her, Dad wore his tuxedo, and all the neighbors came to watch. We celebrated finding a little goat dairy that sold fresh milk we could afford!20

21

I cried when you butchered my bunny,
Couldn’t eat when you served up my hen;
But if you’re ringing that bell for a goat-steak
You won’t have to call me again!22