Notes from Fern Creek: The Complicit Art of Domination
Three weeks after a rendezvous with Boulevardier—an icy-blue-eyed cream buck from down the road—I am hopeful that Rosemary and Hilda have settled.
Welcome to another chapter in the quiet, complicit art of raising dairy goats.
Last spring shifts came to the herd that no one agreed to or would have approved if allowed a vote. Clara, Julian, and Oakley had raised their kids to the nine-week mark (my hard stop) and had gone to new homes. Definitely not the preference for either kids or mamas. Two months later I sent Julian and Oakley to Tilikum Camp and brought home Hilda, another of Clara’s daughters. They will have an expansive pasture to roam, and their lives will be pleasant, though again, they had no say in the matter.
Hilda’s homecoming was a delicate negotiation: a brief, sweet head-butt of mother-daughter recognition followed by a power struggle. Hilda wanted charge of the herd; Clara was not ready to lay it down. Then came Rosemary, displaced from her own herd, dropping to the bottom of a hierarchy already contested by mother and daughter.
These sweet creatures have zero agency. I exert all manner of control over their short, bright lives—to breed or not, to milk or not, even to stay at Fern Creek or not.
Today I sat in that discomfort, which is not the same as saying I repented of it; I will not choose differently next spring, when kids are 9 weeks old. But I want to take an honest look at my own dominion. I brought it to my spiritual director and wept some tears, touching the raw nerve of living as though the land, water, trees, and yes, our three Nigerian Dwarf goats, are mine to do with what I want. I do what I do because I can. Which leaves, at minimum, an invitation to walk lighter, to live with gratitude, and to honor and respect life in all its forms.
Meanwhile, little kids are likely forming in the bellies of Rosemary and Hilda, and will grace Fern Creek with their joy-filled lives just before spring. Meanwhile, the rain falls, nourishing the ground, which has been thirsting for it for some time. Meanwhile, maples turn to red, rust, and gold, and in falling to the ground feed the soil, which feeds us all.
I want to live with humility and also gratitude. May it be so.
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