A goat’s tale — ‘Poor lady. Poor Billy. Poor Mom’

Not long ago, my Ontario son Matt emailed a photo of his goat Moe, recently dead at age 15. Mo’s kind face kindled vivid memories of our family’s milch goats in 1940s Newfoundland.

Mom, a health-nut before her time, knew children needed milk to build strong bones and teeth. She also knew that cows’ milk could carry tuberculosis. TB was then epidemic in our outports and as yet incurable except by prolonged rest, sunshine and fresh air.

The solution? Drink goats’ milk. For her, growing up on rocky Fogo Island where goats were common, buying a couple of government-bred milch goats was a no-brainer.

That’s how we came to own a pair of grey-and-white Toggenburgs from Fogo. To house them, she got Dad to add a stall and mini-hayloft to our hen house. For a milking parlour, she used our porch.

If questioned about this she’d say: “Oh, but goats are such clean animals! Even if they happen to poop, there’s no mess or smell, just a few dry buttons easily swept up! Anyhow, ‘tis only from May through October.”

So, all summer they cropped green grass along roadsides fenced against roaming livestock, chiefly sheep and horses. Fetching them for milking was seldom a problem; by late afternoon they’d be at our garden gate, udders tight, bleating to be let in.

Once inside the porch they were rewarded and calmed with a crust of bread each. Half an hour later, relieved and released, they were free to roam some more. Meanwhile Mom, playing it safe, “scalded” (pasteurized) her two litres or so of precious milk on the stove, skimming the thin cream for a treat with jam.

In 1946 we moved to nearby Lewisporte, where my older brother had found work. By now we’d been blessed with twin kid goats, a male and a female. Because the property we rented had a small barn, we were able to house our tiny herd in comfort.

As for me, arriving at a new school over two months late — my dad’s hunting business didn’t close until November — I was Grade 6’s odd boy out. After school, to curb my loneliness, I’d go play with our frisky kids in the barn.

Perhaps because the male kid was nearly pure-bred — pure white, likely fathered by a Saanen — my parents had kept him. And by the time we returned home next spring, Billy was nearly full-grown with horns to match. And he liked to wrestle. Grabbing him by those curving, bony spikes, I’d try to throw him. He’d shake me off. I’d try again, and so on. Great fun.

One difference between goats and domestic sheep is that goats love to climb. One day I found him on our low cellar roof. Lest his sharp hooves puncture the tarred felt and spoil our root vegetables, I coaxed him down with a new game I called boot-butting.

Lying flat on my back facing Billy on the ground, knees bent, feet together, I’d gently shove him away. Resisting, he’d lower those knobby horns and shove back. Then, gradually thumping him harder, I’d get him to charge.

Within a week — WHOMP! — he could bowl me over backwards.

One day, watching us play, Dad shook his head gravely but said nothing. I wish now he’d warned me. Because before long, word came back that Billy had butted an old lady walking on the road. She wasn’t hurt, but after that he was a marked goat. Not long after, taking me aside, Dad said, “Afraid he’ll have to be put down, my son.” I knew what that meant. Friends and I had secretly watched it happen to an old horse. “He’s not mean,” said Dad, “but now he’s dangerous. Too bad ...”

Yes, I thought, and it’s all my fault. Poor lady. Poor Billy. Poor Mom. Poor me. A hard lesson to learn so young; but one I’ve never forgotten.