What about Bob?

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

It is that time of year when the kids are dropping to the ground like spring rain. It seems as though every time we turn around, there is another one jumping about the goat yard as though it had springs on the bottoms of its perfect little feet.

Baby goats seem to be about the most happy creatures in the world, and they certainly seem to know how to make me smile. But Bob is different.

Several weeks back, I was asked if I had room in the goat yard for a yearling wether that had not made weight for last year's fair. It occurred to me that the wether might be a good companion for our billy, who we keep in lonely isolation from the ladies for much of the year.

Still, I asked if he was disposable (aka edible) just in case things did not work out with a new goat in the goat yard. I was advised that Bob was completely disposable. No strings attached.

But this wether already had a name, Bob, and I know from past experience that it can difficult to eat named creatures.

We had raised "Pig A" without a name, only calling her "Pig A," but whenever I go to the freezer to gather some bacon, sausage, or chops, it is hard to just think of breakfast or dinner. I find myself thinking back with a wistful, thankful smile, to the beautiful black pig who shared her life with us.

Perhaps this is the way it is supposed to be. Perhaps this is the real meaning of grace.

But let me get back to Bob ... we pulled up in our farm truck to what we knew was Bob's barn. He must have heard us coming for he was standing up on his hind feet peering over the top of the wooden stall.

He was a little fellow. No doubt that he had not made weight for the fair. He easily let us rub his head. Greg gathered him up in his arms and loaded him into the back seat of the truck. With thanks to his former owner, we headed back down to the creek.

I turned around in my seat for the short ride home, petting Bob to make sure that he did not decide to jump into the front seat and help Greg drive. Bob stood calmly still and looked at the passing scenery.

Back at the farm, I slid a leash over his head and easily led him over to the goat yard. I opened the gate to the billy's world, led Bob inside, and took off the leash. He looked slowly about.

There was a little bit of gain left over in the billy's feed bowl. Bob moseyed over and began to nibble it up. The billy came up beside him. They ate together nose to nose. Grain gone, Bob came back over to me. I scratched between his ears and he stood still. Several chickens wandered by and he just stood and watched at them as they passed.

The billy began to prance about, and then danced on his hind legs, up the hill toward his favorite fallen down climbing tree. Bob slowly wandered up the hill behind him. He did not climb the tree but just stood on the ground below, watching the billy and letting him know that he would not challenge his high perch.

I kept my eye on them throughout the day. Whenever I would go out to the yard, Bob would come up to the fence for some rubbing between his ears. I could look out the cabin window and see them prancing about, and I'd occasionally catch Bob part way up a fallen tree.

A gentle rain falls now. Bob and the billy have bedded down, side by side, in the fresh hay I lay inside the billy's small barn. They seem to have already become a pair, a set of mismatched, or is it perfectly matched, book ends: the black billy and the white wether named Bob.

So if you happen to see me about town this week, and happen to ask "What about Bob?" I will smile and tell you that he is not bound for the freezer. He is home.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.