Elefthería

We have three acres near Springville, and we raise goats. They’re not a business; their job is to keep the grass short enough to please the local fire marshal. And they’re cute. We also have sheep, chickens and peacocks, but goats are the smartest and most affectionate.

Occasionally a pickup truck will drive by slowly, then turn around and drive up the driveway. They ask “Ees your goat for sale?” For cabrito? No way, José.

In the last two weeks, 12 baby goats and 2 baby sheep have been entrusted to our care. When they’re newly born, they can barely stand. They wobble and stumble, but soon find that obscure object of desire and latch on. If there’s just one baby goat, he has the whole banquet to himself. If there are two babies, one gets each side. Three is a little sad, because one has to wait. And sometimes the mother decides two is enough, and the odd goat out has to be bottle fed. We still force a little of mother’s milk down each baby’s gullet, because the colostrum mommy produces provides immunity to infections. But they sell goat formula powder at Evans’ and it does the job, however messily.

The thing is, you get attached to these little creatures. They come up and nibble at the cuffs of your shirt and collar, or at your cheek or nose. You look forward to feeding them, letting them follow you across the fields, even raking up their little pellets of goat poop. You don’t even mind the smell.

Then one day, you see one of your babies lying down listlessly. The others are prancing about, doing that little goat thing where they jump up and do a half-twist just for the fun of it. But this one is just lying there.

You try to feed her, but she’s not interested. It’s getting a little cold, so you put a blanket down on the floor of a stall in the barn and lay her down on it. You try again to give her a little goat formula, and she takes a little and seems to be getting a little better. You come out every hour to feed her a little more. You resolve to check on her every hour. It’s a ranch. Baby animals of all species are a little more work, but it comes with the territory.

Suddenly you wake up at 3 a.m., realizing you’ve missed four hourly feedings. You dress and run out to the barn. She’s off her blanket, lying on the cold concrete floor, and barely moves when you lift her head. You try to force some formula into her mouth, and she seems determined not to swallow it. “Just let me die,” she seems to say. No, you’re not going anywhere! Tears run down your cheeks as you cuddle her to your chest and rub her back. When the sky begins to turn light in the east, she’s still in your arms, but she’s scarcely moved in what seems like hours.

Then you feel a little jerk. She lifts here head and looks you in the eye, and then nibbles your cheek. Again the tears start, but this time, you’re smiling.

At the end of the World War II, Greece was liberated from the German invaders. The Greek partisans who hadn’t been killed by the Nazis returned, and families were reunited and created. Babies were born. Half of the baby girls born in Greece in 1946 were named Elefthería – Victory.

So that will be the name of this little girl — Elefthería. She survived, and that’s all that matters.