Hefner's Big Adventure

            If the goal was to return to my Southern to the Core roots, then it’s official. Today was 100% country-living if ever a country day existed.

           

         My morning began with a loud knock on the door. Thurman and son were heading to Carthage to sell goats, and given my billy, Hefner was now father to most everybody in the pen, it was time to trade him for another. Much as I don’t like to think about what happens at auctions,  I knew Thurman was right. I also knew you could sometimes trade a goat straight out while waiting in the drop off line, so I opted to hold onto this little sliver of hope while allowing them take Heff (my pretty black and silver male who is father to all but one of my baby goats).
        Until my operation is large enough to afford separate pens, this was best. There’s a reason for the expression “thinning the herd”.  It was time.

            So to keep Hef from breeding back to his daughters we rustled him up, tossed him in along with Thurman’s (non-named, Newbian) goats and I tried hard all day not to think about the adventure he was in for. Hef would make someone a good stud goat (as he had my herd) so I said a little prayer someone might go for an even swap  (after all, who wants to eat a Pygmy? So very little meat on the little guys. Go for the big goats if you’re gonna eat goat meat, people. Save the pygmies for pets.)

            Regardless the back and forth in my head and heart, selling goats is a part of farm life; you gotta pay for chow and vet bills somehow. This is a business. I get that. What's more, Thurman makes a good part of his living selling his Newbians (both for meat and for milk). It's a big part of the livelihood in a profession that’ll never make anyone rich.  But watching cattle and pigs (and yes, goats, though “only the big kind” I rationalized) being herded into shoots is enough to make anyone a vegetarian (which I am not, which is why I don’t go to auctions unless I’m buying). Fortunately I had enough going on in my day to keep me properly distracted from the perils of Hefner (or so I thought).        

            I got the rest of the kids fed before heading to the co-op to grab more corn as according to the signs, today was a good “above ground” crop-planting day. ( I’m going strictly with sweet corns this year: Silver Queen, Silver and Gold, Peaches and Cream, as they seem to be everyone’s favorite, and it was all I could do to offload the Trucker's Fave from last year that grew so large it looked like it was grown in Oak Ridge.)  I came home and planted out the rest of my garden rows, while tilling and mulching the rest.

            Shortly after lunch the drilling commenced, ending the day at 125 feet deep and counting. Along the way we hit some sludge (good sign) and saw flecks of hard, black rock spew out, (which my driller says is another good sign). The drilling wrapped around 5, because Mr. Driller had promised his wife he’d take her to go put flowers on her mama’s grave for her birthday. (God love country folk.) Driller and son left promising to hit it hard on Monday…(that lovely yellow rig, now a rather prominent display of yard art for my neighbors to admire all weekend…I’m sure they’re loving me about now).

            It was nearly 7 when Thurman came down the drive, toting no goats…not even the new one I’d prayed he’d swapped Hef for.  Worse, Thurman was walking kinda slowly. Something felt amiss. My cheery hello was greeted with Thurman looking rather doubtful. I could tell something was wrong.

 Seems Hef, being the smart goat that he is, hatched an escape plan about the time Thurman’s truck came to a stop behind the sale barn. According to Thurman, Hef leapt from the gated back end of the truck the second they stopped, and headed straight for the wooded embankment leading up to the Carthage highway into a thicket of woods with ticks and snakes so heavy, it was futile trying to catch him (though I understand several men tried).

It’d be a funny scenario were it anyone but Hef. My heart sank as I thought about the fear in the little guy’s mind about the time he decided to go for it. 

            The good news is, if anyone so much as shakes a cracker box at Hefner, they’ll have a lovely pet. The bad news is, who’s gonna think to shake a cracker box if they see a goat in their yard? In addition to this being a costly little incident, it was an emotional one for me as I went to bed early, in tears, kicking myself for having sent Hef to Carthage in the first place.

            As an ironic parallel, I'm re-reading the Tao de Ching, focus for which is “Go with the flow” and “Everything for a reason.” However, releasing to the notion that I allowed the little fellow to join the ranks of auction goats was a tough pill to swallow. I’m not sure you can name your goats, make ‘em pets and survive in this business.

In times like these (having sufficiently beaten myself up for the lapse in judgment) my tendency is to look for the lesson…asking God, the Universe..whatever your higher power is, “What’s to bless in this mess?” (The only blessing I could come up with was imagining Hef still alive and quite resourceful when it comes to foliage, leaves and babbling brooks, which Carthage has plenty of and near the auction site.)

            Beyond that, my conclusion was “If you’re gonna make pets of your goats, business or no, find them pet homes. Don’t stress them out in the end by making them watch (or be a part of) an auction.” Again, I don’t begrudge folks who sell goats at auction; to the contrary, goat meat is at a premium these days; some say it’s healther than beef, plus selling critters is a big part of life on the farm, but selling MY goats at auction, well, that’s gonna be my burden to carry for the rest of my life.

From here on out, my goats will be sold to individuals. Yes, I know I can’t control the outcome of every little guy’s life; I know they can get eaten. But the thought of little Hef missing dinner with his girls back home, roaming about in the wilderness by his lonesome, made for some serious tossing and turning. (On the other hand, I don’t rule out that he may be having the time of his life with all the vegetation that was on that hillside; I draw great images in my head of the little girl who opens her back door one morning to say “Look Mommy! A Goat! Can I keep him?”)

            If said scenario should play out, the answer is “Yes, Little Girl. Yes. By all means, keep him.  His name is Hef. And in addition to goat chow, he really likes Triscuits and Life cereal.”       

            My dearest Hef, I’m sorry for the fear factor I placed in your day. I applaud your bravery and wisdom. And I’m working hard to release and forgive myself for the rest…I place you in God’s hands. Go forth and multiply once again. May your days be long upon the earth.