The Great Goat Rebellion

No one could ever accuse me of being a runt.  I’m the oldest in my family, was always the
tallest in my class, and am not exactly supermodel-thin. But when I think back to that beginning scene
in Charlotte’s Web, where poor little Wilbur is trying to nurse but
keeps getting shoved around by all the other piglets, I can’t help but feel
that I might have something in common with him, after all: I do tend to be
lacking in the confidence department sometimes. 
That is to say, I was, until
little Buttercup came along, and taught me a valuable lesson. 

If Nigerian
Dwarves are the smallest breed of goats, then I have the smallest of the small.
Buttercup wasn’t supposed to survive. Her mother had delivered her big brother
just fine, but two hours had passed since then, and her mama was obviously in
pain. Her breeder had reached in during
the ordeal, trying to help, but had only managed to break the sac in the
process. She finally rushed her to the
vet, who broke the news to her that, more than likely, he would be delivering a
stillborn kid that evening. Desperate to
save at least the mother, her breeder waited breathlessly as the C-section was
performed. After what seemed an eternity,
a little doeling finally emerged – and against all odds, she was still alive!

From that moment
on, the pampering began. The little doeling was given antibiotics, bundled up,
and brought home. Far from the farmer’s
ax lying in wait for Wilbur, Buttercup’s breeder set up a playpen for her in
the kitchen, made soft and comfy by a thick layer of shredded newspaper.  When I arrived to take her to her new home a
few weeks later, the breeder was in the middle of warming her bottle in a pot,
just like a baby’s – and using an actual baby bottle, to boot! She told us
she’d been calling her “Miracle Baby,” and proceeded to cradle Buttercup in her
arms, on her back like an infant, and feed her the bottle.

The little
princess soon conquered our hearts, as well. Too tiny to be left to her own
devices with Rosie, our other goat, who was only one month older than her but
already much bigger, we kept her in a plastic tub filled with fuzzy fleece
blankets and cedar shavings. Because we
were still bottle-feeding her three times a day, on more than one occasion we
ended up bringing her along with us to work. My husband and I are both teachers, so you can imagine how joyously we
were greeted by our students on those days. We would let her gambol about on
the playground, and even the oh-so-cool high school guys oohed and aahed over
her.

Soon, however,
the time came for Buttercup to join our growing backyard herd. After a few
short scuffles, she accepted her role as smallest Billy Goat Gruff – Bonnie was
the biggest, fully grown and one tough cookie, and Rosie was the medium-sized
one, sweet but not about to be below a runt in herd status. The three of them hit it off famously, and
were soon inseparable.

One afternoon,
upon returning home from school, we heard a huge commotion in our
backyard.  Our three dogs were barking
their heads off, and sounded strange – panicked. We ran straight to the gate to see what was
going on. Normally, our dogs had the run
of the backyard, while the goats were penned separately in their own section of
the yard. Imagine our surprise, then, to
see all three dogs backed into a corner, barking like mad but afraid to advance
beyond the three lowered, threatening goat heads blocking their path. And who was in the lead, urging on her
companions at arms through her own brave example? Buttercup! I imagine she had
had enough of being low man on the totem pole, and had decided to show those
dogs – and her own herd – just how tough she really was.