Our Goats

Mother throws open the stall door with pride. We peek inside. There’s two white goats staring back; they bleat at us. They’re not the cute kind, not little pygmy goats. But their our goats now. Mommy rescued this mother and daughter from slaughter, but they aren’t the least bit grateful. On the milking stand, one stamps and struggles the second her food is gone. She kicks over the milk pail, leans her weight against Mommy, who is tirelessly patient. With glasses knocked askew and milk spilled on her sneakers, Mommy milks on, resting her head against the stained white fur.