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If it is some potentially dangerous animal out there, all we have to do is back up and we’ll be fine. I know wild animals well enough. No critter’s gonna get aggressive unless we give it a reason to be that way.
Instead of opening the door, Olivia scoots behind me. “It could be that goat,” she says hopefully.
I push the door open and swing my light over in the direction of the sound.
She’s right. It could be that little goat out here, making this ruckus. The pale beam of my headlamp cascades over red dirt, then one end of the woodpile, which is a little smaller now that we’ve carted a third of it inside. And there on the other side is that same little goat Olivia went so nuts about earlier this evening.
It’s pulling bark off a juniper log. The long, fibrous brown strands hang from his lip. It knocked a few pieces of wood off the pile, too.
The thing wiggles when it spots Olivia, then breaks into a trot, heading toward us. It careens past me, straight for her.
She squeals happily as she crouches down and wraps her arms around it.
“It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?” I groan as I listen to her murmuring happily.
“He’s staying with us,” she announces, as she scoops him up in her arms.
The little thing bleats happily, unfazed by the fact it’s now four feet off the ground.
“Come on inside, buddy,” Olivia coos. “No mean old mountain lion’s gonna get you tonight, you can count on that. Mamma Olivia’s gonna take care of you.”
Mamma Olivia?
Oh, boy. I draw in a deep breath through my nostrils and clamp my mouth shut, fighting back all the words I want to say. Words about how farm animals belong in barns, where they can do their business on piles of wood chips that get mucked out later with shovels. Where they can rest their mangey butts on piles of hay. Where they can befarm animals.
Because that’s what this thing is.
A farm animal.
It doesn’t belong inside, where there are fancy decorations and throw rugs and rickety tables topped with glass vases. These accommodations don’t belong to us, and neither does this goat.
It’s a bad combination if you ask me.
But if I’m going to bring that up to Olivia, I have to tread carefully. She’s already referring to herself as the thing’s mother. That maternal instinct—it’s dangerous.
“Olivia…” I say slowly, once we’re both inside. “That’s not your goat. It belongs with its owner.”
“Hebelongs withhisowner, you mean.” Olivia smiles. “I’m not a vet or anything, but I can tell we’ve got ourselves a boy. Take a look for yourself. You’ve got that handy-dandy light.”
“Nope. Not gonna happen.” I refuse to shine my headlamp at this animal’s underside.
“Aw, don’t be such a wet blanket all the time, Cole.”
“You’re asking me to check out a goat’s privates. I think I’m allowed to be a little grumpy.”
“This is the best thing that could’ve happened tonight, and you’re acting like you’re being eaten alive by red ants. Would yousmile for once? Anyway, I think we should call him Blue. What do you think?”
I think we have no business naming this animal, that’s what I think.
“Fine.” The growled one word is easier, saves me some breath. “Do you want to go tell Skye to get in touch with that old man, or should I?”
Olivia’s eyes go wide.
“We’re not turning Blue in. That man was entirely too happy to let Blue get gobbled up tonight, all to save him on gas money.” She wraps her arms around Blue even more protective than before.
NotBlue.
It.
