give them a grain mix, which gave the preg-
nant females a little extra energy. To do it,
I needed to pour the wheat, linseed, and
soybean mash into the feeder that sat about
thirty yards inside the pasture.
Salt, the big buck, controlled the place.
I eyed him, the feed bucket looped on one
forearm, while I slowly unlatched the gate
and stepped into the pasture. He froze and
snorted, as he glared at me through his sticky,
matted hair.
Heart knocking, I told myself, “It’s only a
goat,” and started off with a determined step
toward the large feeder.
Salt let out a loud braying call and flew
into action. It sounded like thunder rolling
across the ground at me. I didn’t chance a
look but ran with him hot on my tail. His
great hooves shook the earth, his hot snort-
ing breath too close behind. The females
scattered, clearing the way. With a mighty
leap, I launched myself with everything I
had for the feeder, clawed up its wooden
frame, and pulled my feet out of his smelly
reach.
I balanced on my lofty perch and watched
him circle below. His nostrils fluttered as if
he breathed fire. His hair stood up along his
back and rippled as he moved. He ran toward
the feeder, great head ducked, ready to strike,
skidding to a dusty halt just before he hit. He
pawed once, twice, and his muscles bunched
to charge again.
Quickly, I poured the grain down into
the feeder. The females forgot their reluc-
tance to be near Salt and crowded round,
pushing one another to get to the food.
Salt, not to be left out, shoved his way into
the mix.
The second he lowered his head to eat,
I flew off the feeder and ran for the gate. I
imagined him attacking, but when I turned
he still ate with the others. Relief flooded
me, making my hands and feet tingle. With
a sniff, I thought, “He didn’t scare me,” then
tossed my head and knew I lied.EVERY DAY FOR the next week, I
risked life and limb running for that feeder.
Each time, the monster gave chase.
Then Sunday came. As always, we ate
a big breakfast on weekend mornings, so I
went out for chores a bit later than usual. As
I opened the barn door, a blue Jeep drove up
in front of our house. My dad went to speak
to the driver, so I continued inside to get
Dad’s special brew.
By the time I came out, I saw Mr.
Peterson holding the hand of a little girl in a
pink frock who looked to be not more than
four or five years old. She skipped beside him,
her brown curls bouncing, as the two of them
and my father headed for the gate to the goat
pasture.
I met them there, the bucket of grain
swinging from one arm. Inside, the big male
pawed the earth. His small eyes glared at me
from his lofty height above the others.
Mr. Peterson, who was holding hands
with the girl, smiled a greeting to me and
said, “This is my granddaughter, Marla. She
wanted to come and say goodbye to the goats.