Our latest tale of farm adventure began, as is often the case, with a phone call from my father. Pop - who is kind of old-fashioned and still believes that his adult children are merely "young'uns" who need to be put to work constantly - is always barking orders to do something around the farm.
Something always needs to be fed, watered, picked, gathered, caught, doctored, plucked, butchered, and even neutered when you live on a farm.
This time it was a different type of assignment, and I was in town doing some newspaper work so fortunately for me it was the wife who got the call.
"The nanny goat is a about to have that baby, but I think she needs some help," Pop informed the Mrs. "Your hands are smaller than mine, put on some old clothes and run over here. I've already got the gloves and the Vaseline ready."
I wish I could say that my kind-hearted wife rushed right over to aid this poor animal, but first she called me in a state of disbelief and distress. I wish I could have seen the look on her face. And I wish I could tell you that I didn't fall out of my chair laughing, but that would quite a bald-faced lie.
While I let you ponder the outcome of this situation for a moment ( I'll give you a hint, check YouTube later for the graphic video footage my son shot), I would like to take a moment to abandon the subject of nanny goats and talk about country girls.
What is a country girl exactly, you might wonder? Contrary to popular belief, a lady doesn't have to be born in the country to become a country gal. Sometimes a perfectly normal woman makes the mistake of marrying into the wrong family, and before you know it she's wearing overalls and delivering greased up goat babies.
I've known quite a few country girls in my time, and I highly recommend them to anyone who's looking for a good cook, wife, and all around farmhand.
My Granny was a country girl, and she taught us grandkids a lot. Later it was a much younger country girl that taught me how to pick a ripe watermelon, and how to drive a combine, and when to keep my hands to myself.
My first date was with a country girl. We went to a sweetheart banquet at Nixville Baptist Church. That same young lady could squat and bench press more than most of the guys on the football team. I kept my hands to myself.
Another country girl I knew would wear them short Daisy Duke jeans in the watermelon field. I got whopped upside the head with a lot of watermelons back in those days for not paying better attention.
I once took a girl I was dating out to the farm pond to check catfish lines. She broke up with me right there in the boat. She wasn't a country girl.
But back to the nanny goat. I wasn't quite sure about what kind of country girl my wife was going to become when I moved her out to the farm over six years ago (she refuses to eat farm-raised animals, not even chicken eggs, and she even gives the livestock cute little names), but when you are woman enough to get greased up and play tug of war with a nanny goat in labor, then I'd say you are now officially a country girl.
As for the new baby goat, it was a boy. His first name is Snowflake. And the nanny is doing just fine.
As for my country girl wife, she'll be recovered in no time.