6. Goat’s Milk
Katherine D. Bennett
My kids love goat’s milk. I have to admit that I am a bit bemused by this, as I only find it tolerable. The kid’s think it is great and from their first taste of it two weeks ago, I am hard-pressed to keep enough of it in the house. I would have never guessed this could happen. My children have always been fairly reluctant about trying new things, but they didn’t even hesitate about the goat’s milk. It must be because it came from Elvin and Wanda’s house, or maybe it was because of Roy. I had better explain.
See, I live way out in the country in a ramshackle little house that is cozy and quaint. It sits at the edge of a field of fescue on one side and a deep bluff on the other that ends in the Pomme de Terre River. The bluff is thickly covered with huge, diverse trees whose branches are mostly at eye level because of the steep slope on which they grow. I love it here, and have rented it for many years from my sister’s in-laws, Elvin and Wanda. They are good people and my family has grown very fond of them through the years. They are fair and kind to us, and I am proud to be associated with them.
Now Elvin is an enterprising man. Even though he could retire, he still feels the need to put in a full day’s work every day. He is always looking for ways to improve his land and to be better at tending his herds. He is a true farmer. Anyway, during the past year, Elvin has become interested in raising goats, but he was having a very hard time finding a herd dog. For those that see dogs as pets only, the concept of trying to find the right dog to tend a herd can be strange, but only certain dogs are well suited for the job. A working dog is valuable and an asset to a farmer.
As chance would have it, I had the perfect dog at my house, and I was very eager to find a home for him. Roy is a Great Pyrenees, and he came to my home, half starved, abused and near to death. I couldn’t let him die, so my kids and I tended to him carefully and he slowly started regaining his health. To be honest, I was very taken with him at first. He seemed so gentle and sedate. I carefully groomed this thick, white fur, combing his coat into a glorious white halo. He would raise his head and nuzzle my hands lovingly. I thought I had discovered the noblest creature on Earth. What I didn’t understand was that he was not fully recovered, and he was resting up for the wild rumpus that was to come.
Yikes! This dog was really something when he got to feeling better. He frolicked endlessly, his gigantic dewlaps scattering gobs of spittle like hail. He was impossible to keep even vaguely clean, and he would sail across the yard baying joyfully at us, his thick fur matted with all manner of goo and grime, and in a few horrifying moments, my clean work clothes would be in a shambles. When we would try to leave in the mornings, Roy would move with wraithlike swiftness, and cram himself into my car, dripping with mud and drool. It was impossible. I had no idea what to do.
Now, I have had dogs all my life, and I have never had a dog I couldn’t train at least a little bit. I started researching the breed and what I found both impressed me and depressed me. It seems that Roy was working dog, bred to work, and only happy when working. He needed something to do, and I just didn’t have anything for him to do. I tried getting sturdy toys and playing with him, but would quickly find myself being dragged around the yard by a gleeful giant. My son, a big, sturdy young man could not contain Roy’s exuberant play either. My poor daughter was Roy’s choice for herding practice, and Lydia was hard pressed to even get near the house because Roy had it in his head she belonged in the fescue field. I began to consider surrendering him to the Pyrenees rescue society.
That was when Elvin stepped in. He came to the house to tend to some small maintenance, and was preparing to leave, when he stopped uncharacteristically, put his hands in his pockets and began trying to find words. To be honest, I was worried I had done something wrong to the house because Elvin is usually a direct man. Finally, Elvin spoke.
“That’s a fine dog you got there.”
“Yes,” I replied, “He is quite a dog.”
“I’ve been looking for a good working dog like that….” His voice trailed off.
I have to admit I felt a wild thrill of hope growing in me. Maybe, perhaps, could it be that Elvin admired Roy and might take him home and put him to work? I tried to remain calm and nonchalant.
“Well, to be honest, his talents are wasted here. Do you think you could use him?”
“Oh! I would never try to talk anyone out of a great animal like that!” I could see that Elvin really wanted that dog. He wanted Roy very badly. He had goats to herd.
“Well, let’s see if he likes you, and then if you could use him, consider him yours!”
Elvin’s face lit up, but he tried to act like it was not very important. I called Roy over and Elvin put his hand out for Roy to sniff. It was magic. Roy trotted over to Elvin’s truck and would have gone home with him right then and there, but Elvin thought it would be prudent to speak to Wanda first. The next day, Roy went to his new life, and it has been a very good match. Roy is a masterful herd dog, and Elvin’s trusted worker and friend. It doesn’t matter one bit if Roy hurls himself joyfully at Elvin and covers him in all manner of muck, because Elvin’s work clothes are meant to get dirty. Drool isn’t an issue. Roy can herd things all day, and all is good.
Two weeks ago, Elvin was baling fescue in the big field, and he had a flat tire on his tractor. I had to give him a ride to his house so he could get his work truck. In thanks for the ride to his house, he brought me a quart of goat’s milk. Then he pointed out Roy. He is massive, completely filled out, all traces with his hard past gone. He was guarding his herd, content and strong. I was happy to see him, but he paid me no mind at all. After all, what is a human woman compared to a herd of goats? Hardly worth the notice, apparently.
Anyway, to end this long story, I brought the goat’s milk home, and my kids loved it. Now, it is the only type of milk they want to drink. Strange how it all works. A stray dog, a purpose, a quart of goat’s milk. Yes. It is all good.