On the last visit we tucked ourselves into the crowded, dusty goat and sheep room just in time. I popped up on my toes to see over the shoulder of an overall clad giant and wiggled back and forth as children weaved their way around our legs looking for a post to climb up for a better view. I held on to the chant for a few minutes, but soon felt like I was listening to bubbles being blown in a glass of milk. Like a game of Whack-a-mole I repeatedly brought our daughter's hands back down as she waved them around whispering full force, "Oooo... that one!" We watched a few nice goats walk by with no idea what the bid was at. Oh well. Big A and I looked at each other and shrugged, then laughed at our complete incompetence.
I took the kids to the car and big A said he was going over to talk to someone and would catch-up. As we piled in and let the heat escape the van I noticed a figure walking across the parking lot with a baby goat in their arms - my husband. "Can you do something with her?" he said. All our talk of conformation and dairy lines obviously went out the window when he saw her squeezed into a pick-up truck on her way to slaughter, the smallest of a group of unlucky goats. We named her Vera after a the town of Veracruz, Nicaragua where big A enjoyed having a baby goat tag along with him and his friends one summer as a boy.
She was scared, underweight, and dehydrated. After antibiotics, worming, and eye care she's beginning to act like a goat - climbing on the rocks, head butting the dogs, and eating poison ivy.
Look at that crooked little ear - I'm in love.