Goat One-twenty-eight is one of the head-scratchers — a member of the herd who likes to be petted. She isn’t forceful about her desires, however. She has a plodding gate that exudes an air of constant relaxation, as though she knows she can take as much time as she would like to slide up to me, lower her head, and expect a rub behind the ears.
This attitude suits her pregnancy, too. We’ve been waiting for her to kid since the end of January.
At that time, One-twenty-eight looked as big as any of the other does. One by one, they each kidded and we led them away to their private stalls. One-twenty-eight stayed alone in the manger. When she still had not delivered after three weeks, we decided to return her to the herd with all the other does and the 13 kids. I have wondered if perhaps her portly figure was merely a sign of reaching into the food trough too often. I affectionately have called her Fatty Goat, but she ignores the teasing and eats the same as the other does.
This morning, as I do every day, I watched her waddle up to the hay to get her share. She stopped to relieve herself, slowly easing the back half of her body to the ground. Her udder brushed the straw covered floor. Surely, I thought, this week she will kid.
We don’t know what happened. I’ve speculated that she lost a kid early in the season and got pregnant again later. Or she might have had her turn for a romantic evening with Cash much later than the other ladies.
She’s the Mystery Goat, and she’s going to keep me guessing.
