D. R. Wormack
When Mak named her little goat Foxglove, she did not think about the sandy colors of the coat or the yellow eyes or the two dangling extremities below its chin called waddles. She thought only of the way a foxglove grows tall and bespeckled and beautiful. If Mak picked based on personality, Terror of the Farm would have been a much better choice. Foxglove was more weed than flower. It appeared in corners of the barn where plants should never go. Choked out grapevines that might have been harvested in late summer. Became the barn cats’ blooming nuisance.
More than anything, Foxglove sprouted in the way of Paul, Mak’s father. Paul was a six-foot-two, 180 pounds wet, third generation farmer—the first to own goats. “It’ll be great, ma,” he pitched the idea to the farm’s matriarch. “We can sell the milk to the fancy restaurant in town. Trust me. It’ll be great.” Though reluctant, his mother eventually lifted her blonde brow from those hazy gray eyes and supported her son’s venture.
Paul bought three does from a man he met at the county fair. Within a year, he had six. Foxglove, the first born on Miner Plains Farm, became lucky number seven. The young kid chewed Paul’s jacket stealing the twine he kept in his left pocket. Jumped out and ate the other does’ food. Worst of all, Foxglove nibbled his too large ears while he milked causing him to squint his sky-black eyes. “Foxglove, get down!” he pushed at her with his shoulder, scared she would tip the milk bucket. “Foxglove! Foxy!”
When he was done, he stared into those yellow eyes admiring the rectangle pupils and heard Mak’s laugh as if she and the goat were playing in the field right outside. But Mak was off at school studying some science he could not pronounce, and Foxglove was right here.
“You’re not so bad kid, come on.” Paul swung the milk bucket squeaking the metal handle all the way back to the house. Foxglove followed. He took off his muddied oversize boots. The right. Then, the left. Patted the goat twice and went inside.
“That goat get ya?” His mother asked.
“Yeah, ma.” He placed the bucket on the counter. A bit of a smile stretched over his leathered face. “Yeah, she did.”
2023.
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