Maya the house goat

Kiss me, you fool.

Whenever a doe rejects her kid, my mom brings the baby into our house so she can keep an eye on it. Maya was one of these house goats. She spent the earliest part of her life in a Girl Scout cookie crate in the corner of our kitchen. We fed her from a bottle and treated her like a pet.

That’s probably why reintroducing her to the herd was so rough. Maya thought she belonged in the house, and would stand outside the window looking in on us with what I interpreted to be a mournful expression on her face.

She made her final bid for residency after following my sister in through the back door.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be here!” I heard Annie say from downstairs. “You need to go back outside!”

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” Maya said.

“No, you need to go OUT!”

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

I heard a few things crash downstairs, then suddenly Maya was dashing through the living room with Annie in hot pursuit.

“Outside! Outside!” Annie yelled.

Today, Maya seems happy to live with her barnyard brethren, but I can tell when I look in her eyes that she misses us.

About Carrie

Writer by day, writer by night. Urban farmer/dog mama/baby mama/bicycle enthusiast/oenophile the rest of the time.
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