Page 8 of Apex of the Curve

She huddled in my oversized jacket and shirt and picked her way carefully in my wake through the muddy grass that squished beneath our feet as we made our way to the barn.

“You’re in serious need of some stepping stones,” she said mildly with a laugh and then finished up with, “The flat flagstone kind with the irregular edges would look fantastic with the aesthetic of the house.” She turned back and looked at the weathered brown of my home. It was half log cabin, half weathered cedar shake tiles, and all rustic and as organic as the land around us.

“You might be onto something there,” I said and thought about it. As much of a bitch as it would be to get them in place, it would beat wearing a muddy track in the grass. I’d see what my dad thought about it, but might just do it on my own anyway. He wasn’t getting any younger and had a bad hip – anything to save the stubborn old bastard from a fall and breaking the damn thing. He was getting up there – had just turned seventy-three.

“Do they all have names?” she asked lightly when we ducked into the deep, permanent twilight of the barn. I liked it in here – the smell of fresh, dry straw and alfalfa.

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” I said. “The only named ones are Gunnar and Olaf, our two bucks and the girls who are the baby factories.”

“How many mammas?” she asked.

“Seven,” I answered.

“Oh, wow.”

“It gets pretty hairy,” I agreed. “Especially when they go dropping twins quite a bit.”

“I can imagine,” she said, moving a stray damp curl behind one ear.

“Wanna give me a hand? They’ll be your best friend.” I held a metal pail full of grain out to her and she really smiled then and it lit up her whole face with delight.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’d love to.”

I chuckled. “Famous last words,” I said, and she laughed softly. I loaded up another pail for myself, then loaded up two big five-gallon buckets, and a third smaller pail for some of the goats that needed a little extra. I’d let her take care of the permanent stock while I took care of what my pops and I liked to refer to as our disposable little darlings.

Sometimes, it was tough. Once or twice, we had a goat come along that just had the right personality and sweet temperament that we couldn’t do it. Those either got sold, or kept depending on the farm’s needs.

Gunnar and Olaf bleated at us insistently and I stopped her at the gate, setting down my two five gallons and picking up the third pail off the top of one.

“Better let me get in there with the food. These two are around two hundred pounds of stank and attitude where a meal of grain is concerned.”

“Okay,” she agreed and handed one of the buckets over.

“Goats are assholes,” I said with a shrug. “These two would bully you. They know they can’t get one over on me – still hurts when they knock into you a little overenthusiastically, so watch yourself, okay?”

“Got it,” she agreed with a nod.

She ghosted in after me, hanging back with the third bucket, and I smiled and called out, “C’mere, you two ungrateful fucks.”

I hung one bucket on an exposed nail on the outside of their shelter and tipped the other one, emptying it half way while the moms and still-nursing babies trotted up from the lower end of the pasture. When I was sure the boys were engaged with their grain, I handed back the empty pail to Aspen while I took the full one from her and the third off the nail.

“Watch your footing,” I warned, and we went over to the other, bigger shelter to pour grain into the troughs for the ladies.

“Oh my God, they’re so cute!” she cried at the sight of the little babies, and I nodded.

“Yeah, they are. Think we’re gonna keep that one,” I said, pointing a black and white spotted little girl out.

“Have you named it, then?”

“Nope, not yet. You wanna?” I asked.

“Boy or a girl?” she asked, and I grinned.

“Girl.”

She smiled and asked, “Can I think on it?”

“Sure can,” I said and told her, “You can get in there and say ‘hi.’ They’re still curious this young and could use the human interaction.”

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