Page 17 of Snowballed

More goats? Five already seems like an insurmountable number to have to milk on my own.

Zoe releases the mechanism and backs Cookie off the milking stand. Then the goat goes outside into a paddock.

“Okay, it’s your turn,” she says.

“Maybe I should watch you a bit longer,” I hedge.

Zoe shakes her head. Her wide smile looks evil now. “Go over there and bring another one of the does.”

“How do I know which ones are does and not… the other kind?” I have no idea what male goats are called.

“We don’t have any billies,” Zoe answers.

I go to where the goats are penned. Immediately, they all scatter. I chase after them, but this only makes them run faster like a game of keep away. Finally, I manage to corner one goat. Luckily, they all have collars to grab onto. I steer her towards the milking stand, but she’s not interested. She’s stronger than she looks, and her beady marble eyes glare at me. Her pupils are little slits and she looks positively evil. Aren’t goats part of satanic rituals? Her resemblance to a demon is made clearer when she stomps on my foot.

“Goddamn it.” I let go of the collar and she scampers away.

Zoe has been watching and she’s trying really hard not to laugh. She comes over to help and 30 seconds later, the same goat is ambling down the narrow alleyway to the milking stand.

“How did you do that?” I ask.

Zoe looks over her shoulder at me. “Never let them see your fear.”

I don’t know if she’s joking or not. But once the goat is in the milking area, she makes me take over. After ten minutes of pushing and shoving, I finally get the goat onto the platform, then fail to lock her head in correctly, and she jumps off.

“Come here, you spawn of Satan,” I mutter.

“Her name is Rayme.” Zoe is openly laughing at me now.

“What kind of a name is that?”

She giggles. “My dad started it. All the goats have punny names like Cookie Dough. Except d-o-e because she’s a doe. We used to have a billy called Billy Idol.”

Zoe finds this a lot funnier than I do. She keeps reciting names: Win Doe, Pie Doe. I want to suggest Dill, but I’m probably going to need her help in the next five minutes.

“What about Rayme? That makes no sense with doe,” I say.

“Do, re, mi. Get it?” says Zoe. This sends her off into a cascade of giggles. She has a goofy laugh, a yuck-yuck-yuck that might be contagious if I were in a better mood. I finally manage to get Rayme/Satan onto the platform and secure her neck. I add a scoop of feed, and she munches away. Remembering Zoe’s instructions, I wash my hands, sit on the stool, and wipe the swollen and scary udder.

“Guess why one of the goats is called Fran,” Zoe challenges me as she hands me a small dish.

“No clue.” At least my hands are warming on the udder.

“Like Fran Drescher. You know, the Nanny? Nanny goat?”

Farm humor will be the death of me. I position my hands exactly like she did, squeeze and pull.

Nothing.

I try again, using a little more pressure.

Nothing.

“Let me help.” Zoe bends down and puts her hand over mine. The warmth of her hands on my freezing ones feels unexpectedly nice. Our eyes meet, then her cheeks flush, and she pulls away. Did we just have a moment?

“The key is that udders aren’t like plastic squeeze bottles. You’re trapping the milk in the teat and pulling it out. So seal the top with your fingers.” She demonstrates and then I try. A splat of milk hits the dish. I feel like doing a goal celly.

After getting rid of the initial milk, Zoe hands me a stainless bucket. “Before you get your aim and rhythm going, it’s probably easier to milk into something bigger.”

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