The bright sun blinded me when I stepped out the back door of the farmhouse to go to the goat pen. My big brother who was keeping me company said, “Spring is here to stay. From now on it’ll get warmer, and then it will be summer.” I could hardly remember what a warm summer day felt like. I was so young that I was not allowed to wander around outside without an older sibling with me. Recently, the weather had been either cold and rainy, or mild and windy. The piles of winter snow in our yard had melted away. Our driveway looked brown, with gooey, muddy ruts.

As my brother led me toward the orchard, I noticed that the brown lawn behind our house was turning green and dotted with small yellow flowers. I wanted to go see the goats because Daddy told me that two of our nanny goats had babies last week when it was so cold that it rained slush.

The goat pen surrounded several of the apple trees in the orchard. As we approached, I could hear the deeper bleating of the big goats and the tiny, high-pitched calls of the kids. The babies were clambering around their mothers, stopping occasionally to suckle for a few moments. My brother opened the gate to let me in. I immediately scooped one of the inquisitive kids into my arms. It didn’t struggle as I hugged and kissed it.

Daddy kept goats on our farm for many years while I was growing up. When he wanted to breed the nannies, he hooked a small trailer to the car, and we visited a man who lived beyond the bridge which crossed the Big Eau Pleine River. I loved riding along with him to this interesting, magical place. The farmyard was near a cliff overlooking the river and was surrounded by lush trees and bushes. After loading the man’s billy goat in the trailer, Daddy and the man talked while I sat in our car. From under shady trees, behind banks of flowering bushes, I heard the spooky calls of peacocks and other exotic birds that the farmer raised.

The white billy goat we borrowed from the man smelled terrible. When he was at our place, Mom was reluctant to hang our laundry on the clothesline near the orchard, for fear that our clothing would take on the billy goat smell. My brother told me the male goat peed on his beard. I believed him because the animal’s beard was a dirty yellow.

I loved the goats because they were so affectionate when I played with them. Their strange, slit-shaped pupils made them look intelligent. These beautiful animals were curious and loved to climb and nibble on everything. Daddy provided a wooden ladder and stacked wooden boxes for them to jump on. The borrowed billy goat was so feisty that when Daddy went in the pen to milk the nanny goats, he would rear up onto his hind legs in a threatening way.

I liked drinking goat milk, but sometimes when they were first put out to pasture in the spring, some of the weeds they ate made their milk taste the way Band-Aids smelled. My family butchered a goat only once. I don’t think Mom liked the taste of goat meat.

During the years I worked at the hospital, I was surprised when a nurse said she loved sheep. I didn’t say anything, but thought, “Although baby lambs are cute animals, I don’t think adult sheep are as pretty or interesting as goats. They are too docile and their wool always looks dirty.”

Due to my affinity to goats, it always bothers me when I read Jesus’ parable in the bible about judgment day. He said, “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world.

“Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.”

In biblical times, goats were useful. They provided meat, milk, and on Yom Kippur a sacrifice for the Jewish nation to atone for their sins. They would choose a goat to be the scapegoat and release it into the wilderness since it carried away the sins of the people. I often wondered why Jesus didn’t pick a nastier animal to represent the souls who deserve damnation.

I understand that goats are rascals and can get into a lot of mischief by climbing places never intended for them to be and nibbling on plants they shouldn’t. But goats are silly and don’t know any better, unlike people who act like misbehaving goats.

I have a happy memory of standing in a patch of sunshine in the orchard, holding a kid. It sat contentedly in my arms as its soft lips gently nuzzled the collar of my dress. I loved the little creature. It was a good, little, baby goat.