Village Squire, 1980-07, Page 25SIX ACHERS
Yvonne Reynolds and her husband, a retired Canadian
Armed Forces officer, settled in rural Huron County six years
ago. The antics of one dog [daughter or an immoral Sheltie], one
house cat [Himalayan aristocat], one barn cat [don't auk] and a
fluctuating number of chickens and goats keep her supplied with
more than enough material for a regular monthly column.
This little goat
went to market...
BY YVONNE REYNOLDS
The barn was bulging with goats. The frig was bulging with
milk. The freezer was bulging with butter. Don and I were
bulging with too many cream pies. Our motto had become:
"Don't waste it, waist it." It was time to sell some goats.
We chose Deerie first, as she is getting on, and we have two of
her daughters. Next we picked Taffy, our little runty goat. She
had been the lone female in a set of quads, and her mother
(Deerie) had fed all her precious boys first and Taffy got the
leftovers, if any. Because she was so small, we required our first
vet barn call since becoming goatkeepers; she had needed expert
help to deliver three large kids. We did not want an encore. Taffy
would accompany her mother to the Kitchener -Waterloo
Stockyards.
When our good friend Francis heard of Don's plan, he offered
to come along and help handle the animals. We have purchased
all our goats from Francis; each female goes back at the proper
time for a whirlwind romance with one of his billies, and what
began as a business deal has grown into a friendship.
Early one Thursday morning we covered the floor of the pickup
with straw and led the two goats, blatting like foghorns, up to the
lowered tailgate. I climbed into the back, Don lifted up two
reluctant forelegs, I grabbed a collar and pulled, Don lifted up a
recalcitrant rear, I pulled again, and lleerie was loaded. The
procedure was repeated for Taffy. 1 jumped out as the tailgate
and captop door swung shut. There's not much market for old
female humans these days!
Don and cargo set out for Handy Acres to pick up Francis.
••••••
A rather bemused husband returned hours later to replay his
day. He and Francis had an enjoyable drive through small towns
and fertile countryside to the stockyard. The two men unloaded
Deerie and Taffy, led them inside to be registered, numbered
and tied up, then strolled around the outdoor stalls where
everything from huge green ceramic frogs through broccoli,
shoes, apples, garish velvet paintings to 40 pound boxes of
bananas are offered for sale. Here, too, every conceivable shape,
size and colour of homo sapiens can be seen. (Just remember as
you contemplate others that you too are part of the people
parade.)
The auction started at 1 o'clock. Deerie was sold to a farmer in
our area who had previously bought two of our bucks. Don was
pleased that she would have a decent home. Soon Taffy was led
into the centre of the ring, and the bidding began. The price rose
to a respectable level, the activity slowed, then halted. "Going .
. . . going . . . gone . . .to the man in the green hat."
The clerk who had tagged the incoming goats noted Taffy's
departure. "Didn't you bring that goat in?", she asked. "Yes",
Francis replied, "but she belonged to the other fellow. Now
she's mine."
When Taffy was led outside, she lunged and leaped on the end
of her rope like some gangly, grotesque puppy. Setting a fast and
furious pace back to the truck while Francis held grimly onto his
end of the tether, she paused at the truck, waited impatiently
until the tailgate was lowered, then jumped unassisted into the
back. She looked at the two men as if to say, "Well, I've enjoyed
my little jaunt; now let's get the show on the road."
As the two men headed for home, Francis broke the
companionable silence. "You must wonder why I bought Taffy.
I knew she was a good goat, and I wasn't going to see her go
below a certain figure. I could have bought her on the way down,
but I wanted you to know you were getting a fair price."
••••••
Don and 1 were greatly amused by the day's events, until we
realized that the K -W Stockyards would be keeping 10 percent of
our cheque.
•••••••
Our antique wall clock has stopped. It needs a new gear that
will have to be handcrafted by a skilled artisan. At least it's right
twice a day, which is more than some of us can say.
VILLAGE SQUIRE/JULY 1980 PG. 23