Our house was always full of animals: cats, dogs, chickens, budgies, hamsters, fish, turtles and pigeons. But as we usher in the Chinese Year of the Goat, it brings to mind our pet white nanny goat, aptly called Goatie.
Goatie was confined to the back of the house, a 1980s bungalow, where she mainly ate the grass, hedging and trees. Although we were surrounded by fields, I never remember her escaping into them, but she did occasionly make her way to a neighbour’s garden, where she gorged on cabbage, peas, trees and even roses.
My father bought Goatie from a bodhrán-maker when I was perhaps four or five years old, along with three bodhráns. It was not until much later that I made the connection.
My grandparents owned a farm, including some bogland, and when I was a child my parents used to harvest turf. The only photograph I have of Goatie is on one of our trips to the bog. For some reason, Goatie had to make the trip with us, along with our Yorkshire terrier. I don’t remember much about that day but I’m sure Goatie had a great time with all the heather to be eaten.
Goatie got pregnant once, and I remember coming home from primary school one day in late spring to find two newborn kids. The kids were identical, with beige coats and brown faces, but one was male and the other female. The male was rowdy from the beginning and would charge at random. As he grew larger, the only option was to run from him and get inside before he caught you. He also had a strong odour. To this day I cannot eat goat’s cheese.
Goatie died quite suddenly one summer night. As she was too big to bury in our garden, my father buried her on the edge of the bogland. Perhaps in some distant time, Goatie’s preserved body will be discovered – the Tollund goat – and will tell part of the story of who we were.
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