Goats
by Rachael Esterkin

I stiffly squatted by Astro, the white pygmy goat, and put a hand on her back to steady her. The bony vertebrae and stiff hair prickled up against my palm. Astro stopped shifting her weight and allowed me to examine her. She was dilated. A milky trail, like fresh slug slime, was working its way down toward the backs of her legs. I guessed it would be another eight to ten hours, but her labor would start that night. I stood up, pushing my hands against my knees, and when I was nearly upright, reached over and patted Astro's neck. She looked at me with yellow eyes. I couldn't see much intelligence in her gaze, but I saw trust, understanding and soul.

I strolled out of the pen, latching the splintery gate carefully behind me. I entered the shed that shared a wall with the covered part of the goats' pen. On my way I peeked into the covered part of the pen at Shadow, the black goat. I checked a shelf in the shed. An empty bucket, clean towels, a small bottle of iodine and a larger bottle of betadine, a jar of molasses, and a pair of scissors. Everything was in its place. I reached into a sticky bag of molasses covered grains and filled my left hand. With my right hand I rolled the unwieldy burlap bag shut, and closed the shed door as I exited.

Leaning into the covered area of the goat pen, Astro and Shadow sensed food and came toward me, bumping bellies. Astro's belly was further back than Shadow's. Her baby or babies had dropped. It seemed Shadow was second to give birth every season. She also had problems more frequently. As both goats nuzzled my hand and ate greedily, I sadly remembered the year before when I had watched Annie, my mentor, with a hand and part of her arm fully inside Shadow, trying to deliver a breached baby that was stuck far along in the birth canal. Girl and goat both struggled, trying to rest and exert in the same pulse. I had stood close by, watching and trying to learn, knowing that this was to become my job once Annie graduated from middle school. Annie fell back slightly, her hand falling away from the worn out goat. She was holding half of a baby. The second part was removed more expediently followed by a fleshy maroon placenta.

My focus was drawn back to the present when Astro bit the fingertip of my left middle finger, hungry for more food. She bucked away when I tried to pat her head. I left, excited and nervous about the possibilities of the coming night.

At 10:30 Astro began her active labor process. I stood by, ready to intervene if there was a problem, my heart full of hope and amazement.

The moon was bright and the sky was surprisingly clear for Portland . A breeze made me shiver and hug myself and the sound of the dry grass chattering added a background murmur to the goat's cries. I held a bowl of water up to the uncomfortable goat. She drank and reset her feet, her discomfort and desire to be rid of the burden pushing inside her obvious. Her udder was so swollen that it made her splay her legs out when she walked in an unsuccessful effort to keep it from bumping against her legs at every move.

Astro seemed like a different animal from the one that had pushed my hand away hours before. She relaxed as I stroked her muzzle. Her upper lip pushed out skyward as another contraction began. I ran my hands down her sides.

As the night wore on her cries became more frequent and her voice more hoarse. I wanted to lend her my strength. The moon had crossed the sky. A baby was about to be born. I covered my well-scrubbed hands with betadine, and guided the newborn, clearing her nose and mouth and placing her by her exhausted mother. Astro took the time to lick every part of her baby before turning to sip the warm water and molasses that I offered her. I checked the baby's umbilical chord and dipped it in iodine. The baby suckled briefly. Astro then turned herself toward the task of expelling what was left inside of her. One more baby appeared, quickly, and uttered its soft cry. I helped deliver the placenta quickly and sat to watch contentedly as the babies tried out their legs.

One year later I knew Astro was close to delivery. I asked the school head to call me if things progressed during the night. The next morning I went to the pen and found babies. There was a dead baby in the hay. I ran to say that Astro had given birth, and learned that a vet had been called the night before and had left after the first two babies had been born. I returned in fury and tears to the pen. The vet had thought Astro was finished with her labor after she delivered the first two babies. The babies ran around me full of the frisky energy and curiosity of new life. If only I had been called. I wouldn't have missed this third baby. Maybe my presence and aid could have helped it. I wrapped the stiff baby in a towel, cringing at the feel of its small but solid body, and tried to ignore the ugly green its hooves had turned.

I carried the small body across the fields over to the woods, lost in sadness and thought. Pygmy goats often have trouble delivering babies. Because they aren't human, should we leave things to nature? What if the animals are non-domesticated? My mind spun forward to the same conclusion. If leaving things to nature is the way things should be, even then man has a duty to aid in the troubles of the natural world. If there is no interference, then there is a denial of the essence of man: of man as an animal and as a creature dependent on the natural world. Humans have a duty to reduce the pain of the world as payment for the suffering they cause. It is wrong that any baby should die unnecessarily, human or animal.

I reached the woods, placed the towel down, turned and walked away.

Rachael Esterkin recently finished her Sophomore year at Pitzer College, double-majoring in Media Studies and Psychology.