Page 16 of Snowballed

“I had to find a time that works with my schedule. When school starts, I have morning practice.”

“Why not do them in the evening then?”

She gives me a scornful look. “Because then it would interfere with my weekend games. Animals need a routine. Just be happy that we only milk once a day. Most goats are done twice.”

We return to the house, and I go up to my room. I try to read and finally give up and go to bed. However, I can’t get to sleep. I keep tossing and turning and wondering if I’ve made a big mistake.

My alarm goes off ridiculously early. Besides being early here, my body is still on Pacific time and protests that it doesn’t want to leave a cozy bed to… milk fucking goats. Also, my bedroom is freezing. I yank on an old T-shirt and sweatpants, then hunt down my thickest sweatshirt. How cold will it be here in December? I skip brushing my teeth since Cracky will be doing all the talking.

She is already awake and waiting for me in the kitchen. Naturally, she’s busy preparing breakfast since she’s a perpetual motion machine.

“Good morning. Ready to work?” Is she shouting or does she just seem louder in the quiet?

I mumble something, and she shoves a travel mug of coffee at me. I gulp it gratefully.

“Someone’s not a morning person,” Zoe says. Next she deems my work clothes too nice, and hands me a coverall to put on top.

To warm up with something easy, we release the chickens from their henhouse. They come waddling out under the watchful eye of Pete the dog. Zoe shows me the little boxes where the chickens lay their eggs. “Why don’t you get one, and I’ll cook it for your breakfast. Nothing like eggs fresh from the hen.”

When I reach in for an egg, the chicken tries to peck me, and I pull my hand back. From Zoe down, everything on the farm wants to injure me. I try once more and manage to snag an egg. Unlike an egg from the refrigerator, it’s weirdly warm, and I almost drop it.

“Euw,” I say. “Is there a chick inside?”

Zoe looks at me like I’ve been lobotomized. “Of course, but it’s not even an embryo yet. A hen has to sit on the egg to begin the process. And it takes three weeks to hatch one.”

I still feel queasy about eating a fresh egg. I put it into the basket Zoe holds out and wipe my hands on my coverall. She sighs. “One more tip: next time try choosing a nest without a chicken in it.”

“Now you tell me.”

Then we move on to the barn where the goats wait in a pen at one end.

“This will be easy once you get the hang of it,” Zoe says. As usual, her voice reeks of unwarranted optimism. In the eight hours I’ve known her—except when she blew up at me—Zoe has been a whirlwind of energy and positivity. I’m not sure if the queasiness in the pit of my stomach is caused by her sickening cheeriness or the fact that goats are quite big in real life. But this is my life now, so I have to concentrate on everything Little Miss Sunshine says.

“This is Cookie,” Zoe says as she leads a light-colored goat up the ramp of the milking station. The goat obligingly inserts her head into a frame. “Lock this into place so the goat can’t get her head out. Take a scoop from this feed barrel and put it in the bin.”

Cookie starts eating immediately. I’ve only known goats for a short time, but they seem to be eating constantly.

“The most important thing about milking is cleanliness. We’re going to consume the goat’s milk, so we don’t want anything bad in it. Wash your hands here before milking. Take one of these wipes and clean off the udder before even starting.” Zoe expertly swipes the udder which is a huge swollen part of the goat I’ve never noticed before.

“Is she pregnant?” I ask.

Zoe smiles. “No. We breed our goats in the fall, so they have kids in the spring. Now, what I do is take the first milk and toss it. That gets rid of feces, straw, or anything bad that might already be in the teat.”

Like a five-year old, I automatically smirk when I hear the wordteat. Zoe doesn’t notice; she’s already discarded one stainless bowl and picked up another. “Again, cleanliness is key. I’ll show you how we disinfect the bowl and buckets later. Now watch me.”

I crouch down beside her. Her hands effortlessly move up and down, alternately squeezing milk from one side and the other. The milk looks thicker and more yellow than regular milk.

The barn cat is back, and he rubs up against me. I scratch his head.

Zoe seems to be inspecting the goat as she milks it. I’ve already noticed she’s a multitasker. I’m only glad that Chi and Bachan aren’t here to see how right they were about my uselessness.

“You can tell when you’re done because the milk peters out,” Zoe says. She stands up and pours the fresh milk into a homemade filter and cooling apparatus. “Now to make sure Cookie doesn’t get an infection, I spray her teats with this. In the winter, I use a salve instead.”

The winter? The thought of doing this daily for months is daunting. And is this barn going to get even colder?

“What do you do with the milk?” I ask.

Zoe frowns. “We used to sell it when we had more goats. But we still have a few customers: a woman who makes goat’s milk soap, a family with dairy allergies, some neighbors.”

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