Journal of a Living Lady #104

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

This morning Buddy ran into the house in a panic wanting me to call the veterinarian. He sounded like Prissy in Gone with the Wind, “Lawdsy, we've got to have a doctor! I don't know nothing about birthing babies.”

 

We have had two pygmy goats since last June. One was a young billy and the other an unproven nanny. Both got very fat on the summer grass and generous feed.  We might have suspected Cola was expecting except that Pistol was just as fat. Yet, when Cola’s bag dropped a few days ago, we were fairly confident of an impending delivery. We just wished it didn’t have to be February, one the coldest months of the year.

 

Today Cola started bellowing. No, that is what cows do. She started baaing. No that is what sheep do. Whatever, she was hollering in goat language. Labor no doubt. Been there, done that. It ain’t fun.

 

“Call the vet and see what we need to do,” Buddy said. I reminded him that animals had been giving birth for many centuries without veterinarian assistance. To ease his mind, I went out to the barn to see if Cola was truly in distress. She wasn’t.

 

First came a black kid about the size of our Chihuahua. The second kid was the caramel color of both registered parents. Yes, Bristol Pistol, the head of the goat family, and NiCola had to register. That way goat genealogists can trace their family tree just like the Aristocratic King Canines do.

 

Buddy had seen calves born. I have raised exotic birds and worms. Goats were new to both of us, especially registered goats.

 

Coincidentally, our son Charlie was home from college in time to observe the kidding. I was glad. Maybe he would have empathy when his someday future wife was delivering our first grandchild.

 

In comparison to Charlie’s arrival, NiCola’s birthing was remarkably easy. In less than twenty minutes NiCola had two kids, a boy and a girl.  It took twenty hours to have Charlie. Then it was by Caesarean. The obstetrician did a fine job without Buddy’s assistance.

 

After months of  mock labor practice, this only father in the Lamaze class with graying hair couldn’t bring himself to watch the delivery of our son. It was just as well. Buddy would have fainted anyway. I am certain of it. In his haste to get me to the hospital, he brushed his teeth with hemorrhoid ointment. He denies it, but I  was there.

 

So, here we are twenty-one years later, older and wiser and still able to laugh at ourselves. There is nothing like kidding. Goat kidding that is. In the bathtub are our two baby goats wrapped in pink and blue blankets.

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February 27, 2001