The Honor of the Acres

Our oldest boy, Honor, has always had a unique relationship to the natural world. As a preschooler, his eyes would light up every time his dad would offer a handful of wriggling worms for the coy pond. Honor's lips would curl into a grinchy smile as he'd cackle, "It's chow time!" In later years, I would watch Honor peer out of our sliding glass door at cocky suburban deer, would wander fearlessly into our backyard and help themselves to my herbs. Under his breath, Honor would mutter "Oh, Mama... if only we had a gun... we'd eat for weeks." Now, Honor isn't a violent fellow, by any means. He is gentle as a dove. We housed a baby squirrel for a few months once, and Honor tended to it like its bushy tailed mama. But Honor has a remarkable ability to look into the sweet, adoring eyes of one of God's furry little creatures, and see his lunch. I believe that, given permission, Honor would walk right up to a grazing heifer and stick his knife and fork into her rump, and he'd call it barbecue.

The other day, as Lila and I were watching the goats graze in our back yard, Honor approached us from the wooded depths of the pasture. He was bundled up like an Eskimo, and carried a slingshot in one hand and a pocket knife in the other. He looked like a savage warrior, back from the hunt. Not long ago, he'd gone be be hunting with John and Xavier. He had just missed a meaty blackbird, shooting the branch below it and sending it off in a flurry of feathers. Ever since, he'd had a determined look in his eye. This day, he was after rabbit.

I asked Honor if they'd hit anything. He pursed his lips and said, "Nope. Saw it twice. Got away." He was gazing blankly at the goats, and I couldn't tell if he was seeing his pets or his dinner.

Lila and I sat watching him for a moment, unsure as to how to continue the conversation. Lila then gave me a nudge and a nod. Reading her mind, I stood and said, "Well, time to bring the goats back to the pen!"

Goats are not dogs. They do not come when told to. Tugging the leads around their necks only gives them cause to dig their hooves into the ground and play tug-o-war. Eventually, I plan to have these animals so familiar with Emotive Acres that they will be happy to do as we please. But as of yet, the goats go limp when forced to move, and its like transporting a hundred-pound sack of jell-o. I was only able to take one at a time (and I was only barely able to do that), so I did my little muscle-warming dance and bent down to pick up the billy goat.

"I'll carry him," said Honor the warrior.

"Really?" I said. "He's heavy."

"Don't worry about it," Honor said, "I got this."

Then, after cracking his back with a meditative stretch, Honor knelt down and picked up the little billy goat. The goat shifted and squirmed, forcing Honor to toss him up and catch him several times on his chest, but eventually the little goat went limp. "Gotcha," Honor said. The billy goat puckered his lips, stuck out his little pink tongue gingerly to Honor's ear, and said:

"MmmEEEEEEeeHHHHHHHHH!"

Honor was unfazed. We began the trek to the Goat pen, and his mind stayed focused. "Betcha his babies will make a lot of food," Honor said.

"MEEEEEHHHHH!" the billy goat shouted in his ear.

"And his fur is so soft. We could make clothes and stuff out of it."

"MEEEEHHHHHH!!" the billy goat was practically sucking on Honor's earlobe.

"Do you think when he dies, we can eat Billy too?"

"MEEEEEEEHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

If the little goat could have had symbols and a marching band parading in front of Honor with banners of protest, I'm sure he would have. But Honor wasn't concerned. His love for the little goat wasn't in question. When we finally reached the gate, Honor dropped the jelly-filled goat load and let Billy recover. Then Honor looked at the goat and smiled so sweetly. He reassured the little creature with his loving brown eyes, and all of our hears were pacified. The billy goat remained by Honor's side, in complete trust. Honor loved the goat in a way that he could understand, and all that mattered to the Billy was that at this moment, he was being cared for.

All animals have their responsibility to Emotive Acres, whether their lives are long and they give us milk and clothing, or their lives are short and they feed us with their meat. There is no cause for us to feel guilty, when we've given each creature so full of a life. It doesn't matter when their lives end or for what reason; the fact that we've loved that creature throughout its time on earth is what is important. Honor, I think, has always understood this in a way that most adults do not. Honor appreciates life in the moment, he appreciates love in the now. An attitude like that is truly what it means to be "honorable."

Goats go to Hell?

Goats have never been on my radar. I know that they are a farm staple, but I'd never thought I'd have much use for them. In all my culinary experimentation, I'd never acquired a taste for goat milk and cheese, so I couldn't foresee getting much use of their dairy. And though I've never eaten goat babies, I imagine they taste like lamb, and I'd given up on lamb long ago when my grandma surprised me with it at a tender young age. But as we get to know the people of Owensville, my mind is forced to open up to all possibilities of stewardship. Each time I mentioned my desire to raise a cow for dairy and for beef, I was met with uproarious laughter at my suburban naivete. I was told many times to start with goats, and work my way up to cows. It is cheaper, creates less waste, and consumes less time. So, Emotive Acres adopted two little brown goats this week, completely on blind faith.


We brought home Billy Idol, our billy goat, first. We hadn't yet secured the goat pen, so he spent his first Emotive Acres night in the barn with the horses and the cats. At first I wasn't terribly disturbed by his appearance. He scurried around like a little hoofed dog wearing a helmet. But when I found myself alone with him after the sun had set, I was sure that he'd haunt my nightmares. His head looked like that of a battle-ready Klingon, and I'd seen demons and devils prancing around on those little cleft hoofs in far too many illustrations. He could dematerialize and slide in and out of secure horse pens, and in the midst of the stillest silence he would appear, airborne, from the dark shadows of the barn and land with all four feet on the loudest object in the area. It was like a Japanese horror film. What had I done?

Then I thought of something my husband had taught me. A prey animal like our goat needs to be dominated. Its job is to be afraid, to run, to look out. Prey animals look for some good domination so that, in their submission, they may feel secure. At the time I couldn't have been sure whether this advice were true, or whether it was just more of Farmer John's sexy talk. But I decided to give it a try. I shook some goat treats in my hand to catch Billy's interest. Once I knew that his curiosity was peaked, I took a running leap across the barn floor, and clasped both hands around his curved horns. I'd forgotten to pull my knees underneath me, so he wiggled and kicked and gave me belly burn over the concrete. I pulled myself to my feet, covered head to toe in horse dust, but managed to maintain my grip. Billy kicked and bucked, but I held tight. Eventually I got my hooks under his haunches, tucked his head under my arm, and landed my butt on a wooden box that rested against our filly's stall. Exhausted, sweating, and gasping for air, I told him to sleep.


Billy struggled and fussed for a few moments, then, like a child who has cried himself to sleep, he rested and sighed. He seemed to trust me, miraculously, the creature who had just wrestled him into submission. My predatory curiosity was now peaked. I ran my hands over his body, feeling for the pockets of meat and imagining what that meat would look like served to my family. Fearing the goat could read my mind and the prodding of my fingers, I reassured him that he was one of the lucky ones who would likely not end up as our meal. But in that moment, it didn't seem to matter. Billy didn't care whether or not I was going to kill him. He just cared that in that moment I was strong, I was calm, and I was loving.

I remember an old Cake song I'd sung along with in high school, which alluded to the Biblical verse of Matthew 25:31-41. In this verse, God separates the world's nations as a shepherd separates goats and sheep. Thus, as Cake stated so plainly, "sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell." Given their sinister appearance, I can't say that I blame the early theologians for painting goats as the demon-sheep. But as I shared my quiet time with my own little goat, I was amazed at how Christlike his behavior was. Goats seem to have an uncanny acceptance for their fate as prey animals. Though they use what God gave them for protection, once they have surrendered to the power of their predator, the vibration they give off is breathtaking. It is an aura of transcendence; no longer does the goat wish to run, buck and fight. He understands that at any moment, his life may end at the hands of someone stronger. The peace that comes along with such absolute surrender is enviable, especially to the hearts of us complex humans. We move around our crowded society in suspicion of one another, constantly guarded against pain in all its forms. When we meet that pain, it is not a simple disruption of our normal, satisfied state. When we meet that pain, it is cataclysmic. It exacerbated with layers of I should have protected myself... and I can't believe I let that happen to me again!

Humanity would do well to adopt the quality of the goat. Love and death happen simultaneously for the goat, as a goat surrenders its fight not out of fear, but in love. If we accept that we are prey to God only, that only He chooses when our life's journey is to end, then we have nothing to fear of one another. That is not to say that we shouldn't have common sense about the dangers that humans can pose to one another. I didn't learn to shoot a gun for nothing. But when the crazy arises, when we're feeling suffocated by stress, attacked by others, or abused by our imagination, we must feel God's hands around our horns. When we feel the most panicked, the most out of control, we must rest, and sigh, and surrender to the stronger being. If we do so in love, we will see that the causes of our concerns were gifts. They were opportunities for to feel closer to God through His domination, so that we may feel owned, we may feel loved, and we may feel safe.