Life's a gambol if you're a goat!
to Frodo, Vistery and Sasha, even though none of you could read...
In 1984, I was 13 years, and had a little kid from California that I named Vistery. Her mother, Tokay, was the National Champion, but that was all to come later; I was lucky enough to pick Vistery before she was born. Her mother was a large doe, as were all of the goats from that herd (they say that like the trees, they grew on the Northern California mist), but e.coli had struck the kids on that farm that spring, and Vistery had a few setbacks...she never quite reached the size of her older cousins. It didn't matter, milk was in her genes, and when she was four years old, she made it into the ADGA Top Ten for Alpines (3,450 lbs. of milk in 10 months. Please do not ask me what we did with it all. You can only make so much yogurt and cheese at one time). It was a made-up name, Vistery, with my Greek and Latin roots, I decided it had something to do with vision and I was right. Whatever direction my life has taken, it's always returned somehow to the influence of animals, shaped my career path even, and Vistery, the other goats, and my dog Frodo were was a big part of that, my constant companions, and taught me, sometimes reluctantly, about patience, unconditional love, and eventually, loss.
When you are a teenager, full of tribulations, there is something about leaning your head up against a goat's belly. She will lean back, and there is comfort in that connection. There is nothing quite like a pile of baby Alpine goats sleeping in a heap, nothing softer than their black fur. You never want them to grow up, and their company is so...well...frolicksome, that you'll forgive them when they jump on your back and eat your hair. Seven or eight of them would rush up the teeter totter as one and crash down the other side, and repeat it all over and over again like it was some kind of drug, life is a constant high when you have nothing to do but play, sleep and eat.
When you grow up on a farm, though, tragedy and death are inevitable. I was 10 or 11 when I learned firsthand how to deliver a baby goat, when crazy Buttercup, the airplane-eared renegade, delivered her first kid, who in turn would give me Silver, the champion who was always smiling due to the interesting eyes-and-mouth birthmark on her side, the Alpha-goat who was Vistery's best friend, and would eat spaghetti (as long as it was vegetarian), orange juice and milk. Most goats are much more fastidious eaters, contrary to folklore, but at the risk of sounding anthropomorphic, Silver was a true gourmand of the caprine set. Probably she just liked to eat. But not every birth went well, and Vistery lost a buck in a breach presentation that got tangled in his own cord. In the pre-dawn darkness, I held his little body, warm and soft and wet against my own, and wept. I've never understood stillbirths...how could something be so alive inside for five months of healthy gestation, covered with beautiful shiny black and white hair, yet suddenly die so quickly? There's a brief passage between the last safety of the birth canal and the daylight world where we tow a precarious line between life and oblivion. Will we become something? A champion, a poet, and inventor, or nothing at all. Will we be extinguished forever, never to see the light of day and become what we might have been, if only?...what is potential, really? How lucky are we that we made it through that birth canal (or however we were delivered), do we ever think about that? I think about that, I think about that all the time, how incredibly lucky I am.
Those goats got me through junior high and then high school. They listened when I had something I couldn't tell anyone else, they put up with me when I was cross, they leaned up against me when I was sad. And never did they know my true complaint, but they were there. I never had a social life with that milking schedule, I wore boots one day to school that were covered in mud, I completely forgot what was on my feet, and it was so embarrassing. The kids at Redmond High did not suffer fools lightly. Perhaps that's why no one ever asked me to the prom, but more likely, I was just shy at the time.
On March 3, 2000, I held my last goat in my arms. On March 10, Vistery would have turned 16. That is old for a goat, and she was weak; it was time. The vet made a house (farm?) call. Finally, she gamboled off forever and we buried her in the garden. Frodo, dear sweet Frodo, my one-track mind ball dog joined her several years later in the garden. And Sasha the dog made her way into the garden in February. Whenever death comes around again, it never gets any easier, no matter how inevitable or expected. It seems like the biggest tragedies happen when I'm at my happiest, or completely distracted by something else. Obviously this isn't strictly true, but the greatest losses have made me love what I have even more, absolutely and unconditionally, deepened my convictions, made me cherish everything I have because it might be gone tomorrow, take absolutely nothing and noone for granted, made me wonder if I'll have time to do everything I want to do in this life, and forced me to get up and do it, and most of all to have the strength to believe in something even if its seems out of reach. Because it never really is. Not for good.
Coming soon...There and Back Again, or, The incredible true-life adventures of Frodo the Dog.
In 1984, I was 13 years, and had a little kid from California that I named Vistery. Her mother, Tokay, was the National Champion, but that was all to come later; I was lucky enough to pick Vistery before she was born. Her mother was a large doe, as were all of the goats from that herd (they say that like the trees, they grew on the Northern California mist), but e.coli had struck the kids on that farm that spring, and Vistery had a few setbacks...she never quite reached the size of her older cousins. It didn't matter, milk was in her genes, and when she was four years old, she made it into the ADGA Top Ten for Alpines (3,450 lbs. of milk in 10 months. Please do not ask me what we did with it all. You can only make so much yogurt and cheese at one time). It was a made-up name, Vistery, with my Greek and Latin roots, I decided it had something to do with vision and I was right. Whatever direction my life has taken, it's always returned somehow to the influence of animals, shaped my career path even, and Vistery, the other goats, and my dog Frodo were was a big part of that, my constant companions, and taught me, sometimes reluctantly, about patience, unconditional love, and eventually, loss.
When you are a teenager, full of tribulations, there is something about leaning your head up against a goat's belly. She will lean back, and there is comfort in that connection. There is nothing quite like a pile of baby Alpine goats sleeping in a heap, nothing softer than their black fur. You never want them to grow up, and their company is so...well...frolicksome, that you'll forgive them when they jump on your back and eat your hair. Seven or eight of them would rush up the teeter totter as one and crash down the other side, and repeat it all over and over again like it was some kind of drug, life is a constant high when you have nothing to do but play, sleep and eat.
When you grow up on a farm, though, tragedy and death are inevitable. I was 10 or 11 when I learned firsthand how to deliver a baby goat, when crazy Buttercup, the airplane-eared renegade, delivered her first kid, who in turn would give me Silver, the champion who was always smiling due to the interesting eyes-and-mouth birthmark on her side, the Alpha-goat who was Vistery's best friend, and would eat spaghetti (as long as it was vegetarian), orange juice and milk. Most goats are much more fastidious eaters, contrary to folklore, but at the risk of sounding anthropomorphic, Silver was a true gourmand of the caprine set. Probably she just liked to eat. But not every birth went well, and Vistery lost a buck in a breach presentation that got tangled in his own cord. In the pre-dawn darkness, I held his little body, warm and soft and wet against my own, and wept. I've never understood stillbirths...how could something be so alive inside for five months of healthy gestation, covered with beautiful shiny black and white hair, yet suddenly die so quickly? There's a brief passage between the last safety of the birth canal and the daylight world where we tow a precarious line between life and oblivion. Will we become something? A champion, a poet, and inventor, or nothing at all. Will we be extinguished forever, never to see the light of day and become what we might have been, if only?...what is potential, really? How lucky are we that we made it through that birth canal (or however we were delivered), do we ever think about that? I think about that, I think about that all the time, how incredibly lucky I am.
Those goats got me through junior high and then high school. They listened when I had something I couldn't tell anyone else, they put up with me when I was cross, they leaned up against me when I was sad. And never did they know my true complaint, but they were there. I never had a social life with that milking schedule, I wore boots one day to school that were covered in mud, I completely forgot what was on my feet, and it was so embarrassing. The kids at Redmond High did not suffer fools lightly. Perhaps that's why no one ever asked me to the prom, but more likely, I was just shy at the time.
On March 3, 2000, I held my last goat in my arms. On March 10, Vistery would have turned 16. That is old for a goat, and she was weak; it was time. The vet made a house (farm?) call. Finally, she gamboled off forever and we buried her in the garden. Frodo, dear sweet Frodo, my one-track mind ball dog joined her several years later in the garden. And Sasha the dog made her way into the garden in February. Whenever death comes around again, it never gets any easier, no matter how inevitable or expected. It seems like the biggest tragedies happen when I'm at my happiest, or completely distracted by something else. Obviously this isn't strictly true, but the greatest losses have made me love what I have even more, absolutely and unconditionally, deepened my convictions, made me cherish everything I have because it might be gone tomorrow, take absolutely nothing and noone for granted, made me wonder if I'll have time to do everything I want to do in this life, and forced me to get up and do it, and most of all to have the strength to believe in something even if its seems out of reach. Because it never really is. Not for good.
Coming soon...There and Back Again, or, The incredible true-life adventures of Frodo the Dog.
posted by Susanne at 10:26 PM
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