So, what surprise could there possibly be at Art in the Garage? What could possibly surprise Karen?
One word: Goats.
(Doesn't it seem like it's always goats? Or is that just me ;)
Two and a half weeks ago, at about 4:30 in the afternoon, when I was still sick, there was a knock at the front door. The dogs went nuts, the girls answered the door, and as I was coming down the stairs, still in pajamas, I heard that word: Goats.
It's Kim, the neighbor from behind us, and she says, "Karen! You're a gramma! There are two baby goats behind your barn!"
I say, "Oh no, Rosie is almost six, never had kids--she's barren." (I realize now that this was a stupid comment--what can I say? I was sick? Hmmm. Okay. Maybe I was in denial.)
Kim is wonderful. She ignores the fact that A) I just made a ridiculous statement, and B) I look like a poorly-groomed Yeti. Did I say she's wonderful? She says, "Well, there are two adorable baby goats behind your barn!"
I put on Richard's big rubber boots, and we slog out to the pasture. I think maybe I repeated the fact that Rosie was sterile--maybe a couple of times. Saying it makes it so, doesn't it? No, by golly, when we get out to the barn, there's Rosie with two sweet little tiny tiny curly babies standing beneath her.
Aaaaah.
Bill Whickers, the erstwhile father, is standing fifteen feet away, looking (maybe) as baffled as I do (well, maybe not). Rosie, meanwhile, is ecstatic to have company and runs away from the babies. We need to get her and the babies isolated, as sometimes bucks will injure the kids.
First we have to dismantle the barricade on the gate, there because the goats have persistently and repeatedly pushed the gate open. I slither in, and fall right on my a##--in the mud, in the
goaty mud, in my pajamas.
Aaaaah.
I grab the babies, hand them over the fence, and then wrangle Rosie out through the little opening in the gate. We get the three of them into a stall in the barn, and then the normal chaos ensues. (Is there such a thing as normal chaos? There is around here.)
Aaaaah.
"Where is a flashlight? Bring the phone back out here, we need to phone the 4H Goat Lady (it is true, I swear--I am not known as the Goat Lady. Except maybe in cyberspace. Naw, not even here, right?)
Well, to make a long story short, turns out that Rosie is in fact the most baffled of us all, all appearances to the contrary. She's not a good mom, and the next morning we saved the one little doeling. Her brother didn't make it, and now we are bottle feeding little Lizzie.
Aaaaah.
