Last to Know

Here we go again: Johnes.  There I wrote it. I even put it in the first sentence. Hah! Take that goat world.  Katherine has been on a wild rollercoaster of emotions dealing with the latest outbreak of what I call “The Goat Plague.”  Gossip from around the country has been blowing up her phone to the point that she’s having nightmares and staying home from school.  Of course it’s not the first time we’ve dealt with this scourge.  I even drafted a post about it over a year ago (a damned good one, I might add), but my buddy talked me out of posting it for fear that young Katherine’s budding goat business would be squashed by the wrath of the goat world.

Well, to hell with it.  I’ve spent the last couple of decades teaching my kids to live transparently, take responsibility for their actions, and take on difficult topics head-on.   Even now.  So here we go.  Sorry, Julie, I know you told me not to do this… but someone has to.

First, a little background on “The Goat Plague,” or Johnes.  I’ll try not to get too technical.  The Mycobacterium avium subsp. pseudoparatuberculosis (MAP) is a bacteria that causes unstoppable diarrhea and rapid weight loss.  The devastated animal eventually wastes away.  The bacteria is a global problem, and can lie dormant in an animal for years before some environmental trigger, such as stress from kidding, can flip the switch to “on.” 

Johnes Goat

In the meantime, the goat looks and acts perfectly normal.  Once activated, though, the disease is transmitted via feces, body fluids and milk (doe to kid).   This all translates to, “Once your goat shows signs of it, a la holocaust goat, you are screwed.  Your “Grim Reaper” goat has been pooping all over your field where the other little caprines are snurfing around for grass and stuff.  There is no cure and it takes two or more years for a pasture or pen to be clear of the contagious poops.  So not only are your current goats goners, but you can’t even restart a new herd on the pasture!  You have to move … or get out of goats.

And it’s not just goats.  It’s sheep, deer, cows.  Maybe a contaminated deer bounds through your pasture and poops on the way.  Bam.  You’ve got The Plague.  

But maybe you don’t know it…. because it doesn’t necessarily manifest for weeks, months, years. 

That’s why we test for it at least once a year.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It started on a Friday afternoon when Julie called me in an utter frenzy.  “____ just called me.  You need to call her RIGHT THIS MINUTE.  I can’t say anymore because I don’t want to spread second-hand information.”  WHAT??!  First of all, Katherine is the goat herder; not me.  Why can’t she deal with this crisis?  She’s 17 and knows way more about it than me.  “NO! This requires an adult,” Julie insisted.  What the hell? Katherine is way more grown up than me, too ….but OK.

I called _____ immediately.  She couldn’t talk because she was driving to a goat show, but she’d call me when she got there.  [BTW she called me back 2 days later.]

I called Julie back: “OK. You can’t leave me hanging like this. Tell me something.”

Julie: “No way.”

Me: “What if I guessed it? Would you tell me then?”

Julie: “Yes.”

OK, “20 Questions” it is then.  But I already knew; I guessed it on the first question based strictly on Julie’s level of panic.  As I suspected, someone had an outbreak of Johnes and everyone was worried that this “Johnes Joe” (sort of like “Typhoid Mary”) had infected everyone else’s herd. 

In true Goat World fashion, everyone jumped to conclusions about WHO had the plague.  I’m going to call the target “Susan.”  She’s a major breeder in our area, as well as a goat judge and a 4H leader.  She has champion bloodlines and beautiful animals, which she sells to competitors around the entire country.  She’s also active in our national organization (www.npga-pygmy.com) on a variety of committees.  Like so many others, she has been involved with pygmy goats for DECADES. Virtually eons! She is a fixture of the goat show world.  Moreover, she’s Katherine’s mentor (now that Bubba has moved on).

www.npga-pygmy.com

Anyway, everyone was pointing fingers at Susan: “she sold goats to so-and-so and they have Johnes. Must’ve come from her!”  “So-and-so bred her doe to Susan’s buck and now they have Johnes.  Must’ve come from her!”

Fox & The Grapes

The one text that really got under Katherine’s skin said: “ Susan wouldn’t sell me that goat that you just bought from her.  It must have Johnes.”  What? That’s fuzzy logic. I call it “sour grapes. “ And just plain mean spirited.  Why would an adult send a teenager that message?

Rather than wallow in self-pity and speculation, Katherine formulated a plan.  Pronto. Information is power.

Within 20 hours she had lined up all her supplies and herded all of her adult goats into the catch pen to draw blood.  It’s a two-person job, so I got recruited.

Most people call the vet to draw blood.  We USED to call the vet to draw blood on all of our PREVIOUS blood testing rounds. It is a veterinary procedure, right?  But not our Katherine.  She’s an industrious girl, that one is.  She Googled “how to draw blood from a goat” and turned up multiple YouTube videos on how to do just that.

Next she went to amazon.com to get her supplies. Ah, technology.

She figured that  process out a couple years ago, when she got tired of the round around with trying to schedule the vet again.  She now has her own account at the lab and a box full of supplies at the ready: syringes, needs, vials, clippers.

Good thing, too. Because we needed to get results ASAP.

Saturday we spent 3 hours drawing blood from 32 goats.  Exhausting.

We’ve got it down to a system, and those vials were packed in ice on the first UPS plane out on Monday morning, on their way to Washington State University, overnight/express/gotta-have-it-RIGHT-now.

Next step: wait. WSU runs the test on Wednesday afternoon and sends out results via email Thursday afternoon or Friday morning.  That’s basically 5 days of waiting.  Five excrutiatingly long days.

We’ve been through this drill before and had not-so-good results.  I’ll post more about that disaster in my next blog.  We are all about full disclosure, baby, everything. But, anyway…

Katherine and I barely spoke those 5 days.  She woke up with black circles under her eyes every morning from being awoken by nightmares all night long.  She would dream of reading through the results: negative, negative, negative, positive, negative, negative.  Yes, this is what 17-year old girls dream about on a goat farm. Terrifying on so many levels.

Friday morning a photo popped up on my text messages:

Oh, thank God.  All negative. My next response was, “HAH! See that goat people? See, we do NOT have Johnes! Woo hoo! Bite me.”

Hugh relief all around.  Katherine relaxed for the first time in a week.

Then the insidious nature of the goat world set in: the rumor mill kicked into high gear.  She got a call from a nearby goat friend: COME QUICK! I NEED TO DRAW BLOOD! JOHNES IS GOING AROUND AGAIN!

One of the things I like most about Katherine is that she is selfless and kind and helpful in these situations – all without thinking twice.  She ditched her afternoon classes, grabbed her supply box, jumped in her truck, and drove over the hill to the next town to draw blood on our friend’s 15 goats.  Doc McStuffins to the rescue again.  

After everyone recovered from the stress the information began to flow.  

Turns out Katherine and her friend were the last to know about the epidemic.  It’s been going around for 3 months, and people have been whispering about it at all the shows – behind Katherine’s back. 

Lets put this in perspective: Susan, the target of the rotten gossip and Katherine’s mentor, sold Katherine a few goats this Fall and let Katherine breed her does to Susan’s bucks.  If the whole goat community thought that Susan’s herd was diseased, why did they not say anything to Katherine? Not a peep. No warning. No cautionary glances. No nothing.

Katherine was tormented by the thought that her mentor would intentionally set her up with The Plague and destroy her herd – knowingly.  She started hatching schemes to return the goats to Susan.  But what to say? “Um, I don’t like it anymore. Thanks anyway!”  “My Mom says I can’t have any more goats. 55 is just plenty.”

Nothing sounded right.

Finally, we had a flash of brilliance: why not just ask Susan directly what’s happening? Shazam.  What’s the worst that would happen? Susan would explode and yell at her and deny it. Or worse, confirm it.

Katherine and I role-played the various scenarios, best to worst, and she decided that she could live with the worse-case outcome. So, off went the text:

I’m hearing a lot of rumors about your herd having Johnes and I wanted to talk to you about it.

There you have it. The truth. Simple. Direct. Non-confrontational. Honest.

And scary as hell.  All the adults in the goat world chatter amongst themselves, filling in the information gaps with guesses and half-truths.  Avoiding the direct approach at all costs. Like a game of “Telephone,” it distorts at lightening speed.

The response came back:   Call me

Katherine took a deep breath and excused herself to go make the call. Fifteen minutes later she came back with a big smile and looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her in 2 weeks. NO JOHNES! Test results exchanged.  Proof.  Confirmed.  Susan’s herd is clear. So is Katherine's.

Katherine’s keeping the goats and will proudly take them to the first show of next year. (Katherine and half of the goat world are skipping this last show coming up next weekend – too much drama.)

I’m profoundly proud of Katherine for “taking the bull by the horns.”  She didn’t succumb to the gossip and rumors.  She didn’t make up excuses.  She went right to the source, risking her relationship with someone whom she deeply respects. 

And you know what? It turned out even better than she could’ve imagined.  Funny that.   

She maintained her relationship; she found out the truth; she made Susan feel better. Another life lesson from the goat pen.

Gotta remember why we are doing this goat-thing at all

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Abstract Iguana

Land Iguana

Katherine and I are on an expedition in the Galapagos Islands. Time is short – it won’t be much longer before she decides that I am intolerably “uncool,” so I figured we’d better do something memorable while we still can.

First, however, I apologize for not having any goats in my blog. There aren’t many left here, after decades of successful eradication efforts (non-native species and all). So, I’ll use local wildlife to illustrate my thoughts.

Watching the animals reminds me of child rearing and growing up in so many ways. Here we go: Abstract Iguana.

Kids need down time, 

without a hovering parent.

Galapagos Fur Seal

We came across this baby Galapagos Seal (which is really a sea lion, but no matter) while walking through a lava field. It was lolling around in a tidal pool, letting the waves roll it any which way. Floating on its back; under the water/over the water. Its mama was out hunting fish somewhere. It saw our group coming and called to us with a long “maaaa.” It wasn’t anxious, stressed, or bored. Just saying “Hello.” Then it went back to lounging. Human children could do that a whole lot more: less scheduled time, more time amusing themselves and appreciating the world around them – without mom telling them how to do it.

Sometimes we hang on to things that don’t work anymore.

Flightless Cormorant

Here is a Flightless Cormorant. Its ancestors flew to the islands, but over the centuries these birds lost the use of their wings. No worry, though, since they dive for fish in the surrounding ocean. Those bitty little wings don’t particularly help them dive, nor do they hinder them either, so the wings stick around.

Some ancient instinct tells those silly birds to hold their wings out to dry in case they need to fly somewhere. Well, hello, those stunted wings aren’t going to fly anywhere. So why do they do it? Habit. Makes me think of all the habits that I hold onto that aren’t going to help me … Over time these birds may even evolve to have no wings at all – just let it go.

Help others.

Marine Iguana and Lava Lizard (I think)

Sometimes the little guy needs a leg up to get a better look around. What’s the harm? No need to be so competitive all the time. There’s enough to go around.

Stay close.

Marine Iguanas

I admit it, I’m projecting my own emotions onto reptiles that surely do not experience human sentiment. In this photo, the top marine iguana is trying to absorb some of the heat from the bottom iguana. But I’d like to think that they are snuggling up … I never thought that I’d use “snuggle” and “iguana” together. But there you have it. Anyway, you should snuggle (if for no other reason than to get warm!)

Wear sunscreen.

Marine Iguana

My kids have heard it a million times: wear sunscreen. But I’ll say it a million more times. And don’t forget the sunscreen on the lips… or you could be this fellow. Kiss kiss.

Trust yourself.

Blue Footed Boobie

No one taught this bird what to do with her eggs. She didn’t go online to watch a “YouTube” video to learn when and how to turn them. Heck, her mom wasn’t there to give advice (good or bad). Instinct. She just knows what to do, and she does it without weighing the pros and cons. We should all be so lucky to trust our own instincts to guide us in parenting. Humans have been raising their children for thousands and thousands of years, and somehow we haven’t gone extinct yet. So, trust yourself.

Children are pests.

Blue Footed Boobies

Children can say the most painful things to their parents (and bite your foot, like this Blue Footed Boobie). But it’s all part of growing up: developing coping strategies for stress, acting out in a safe environment, getting attention. And Moms/Dads roll with it. Like this bird, we will still feed you at the end of the day.

Dads can be good “moms,” too.

Frigate Bird and baby

Frigates take turns watching the fledglings. So should we. This chill papa Frigate has everything under control. Does that baby look stressed to you? I have known a lot of moms who were unwilling to hand over the proverbial reins to the dads to watch the kids, even though those same moms were desperate for a break. Like my point above, dads have instincts, too, and can rise to the challenge.

Let them go.

Flamingos

What’s the point of all this parenting if it isn’t to get the kids OUT of the nest? We have 18 or 20 or 25 years to give them all the skills they need to be productive adults. We can teach them to cook, do laundry, pay bills, be compassionate, be adaptable, laugh at themselves. Even better, the kids can figure it out on their own under the safety of our roof, watching our positive role modeling (like Dads doing childcare). Then they need to go put those skills into practice – and we need to let them go.

We all evolve.

Oh, yes we do. Evolve, however, suggests that these changes take generations to manifest. Not so. You can make a conscious decision to break a bad habit or try new things. I, for example, have learned to snorkel. Baby steps, I know, but for someone who has lived much of her life stunted by anxiety about so many things (amusement park rides, speaking on the phone, public speaking, cold blooded creatures), that’s a big deal. To venture out into the big, big world with my 16-year-old daughter to explore lands unknown, above and below the water--with swimming reptiles for God’s sake!-- … well, people change.

photo by Stella Rose

(p.s. Katherine took all the photos!)

Goat Show No Show

The shiny new trailer waited expectantly in the driveway, ready for its first goat-hauling excursion. Katherine was busy stocking and organizing its “new smelling” tack room.  Ten days and counting.  I was prepping myself emotionally to reenter the Goat Show Circuit.  It had been 9 months since I had attended a goat show, and a lot had happened (i.e. breaking up with Bubba and starting a new relationship with David).  Katherine had attended a few shows with Bubba after the breakup, but this was her first chance to prove herself as an independent goat shower.  We were ready.  And then the universe threw me a curve ball.

In Friday’s mail I found a letter hand-addressed to me with no return address and a non-local postmark.  In these days of online communications it is exceptionally rare to get any snail mail that isn’t junk mail—especially a hand-written letter.  So of course I opened it on the spot, as I was walking to the house, herding children in front of me like a mother hen.  I stopped in my tracks, eyes bugging out and blood pressure skyrocketing.

It was from an anonymous “friend” who thought I should know about the romance that had been going on behind my back.  Turns out Bubba had been having a tryst with our daycare lady (“Sarah”) for some time.  Holy moly.  I thought we had broken up because he loved goats more than me—not another person!  I’m not sure which is worse--the goats are pretty cute.  My mind raced back through my memories of Sarah, Bubba, us, everything.  Suddenly a lot of things made a whole lot of sense.

I met Sarah three years prior through 4-H.  Turns out she and Bubba had grown up in the same town and knew a lot of people in common.  They remembered each other from showing goats together as kids, and now she wanted to get back into the “sport” for her kids (of course).  Conveniently, Bubba was the 4-H project leader for pygmy goats.  Bubba sold her some “starter” goats; apparently it really got started.

I was 8 months pregnant with Cash at the time (baby #6) and had adopted a hands-off approach to goatherding.  Perhaps I had taken a hands-off approach to our romance, too.  I wouldn’t be the first pregnant woman to fall into that trap.  

Meanwhile, I tried to befriend Sarah because it seemed we had some shared life experiences.  She had kids (3)—I had kids (5, then 6, then 7).  She was going through a vicious divorce—I was just coming out of a vicious divorce. Sarah was aloof and wary, but I wrote it off to a bad life situation.  Now I saw a reason for her remoteness…

Hand Super Model

I knew that Sarah and Bubba attended all the same goat shows.  Hell, Katherine frequently went to Sarah’s house to kid out Sarah’s goats at all hours of the day and night because Katherine is better at birthing goats than Bubba.  (Smaller hands.)  In fact, the night of “The Ultimatum” (It’s me or the goats) Sarah was the one to call Bubba with a goat-birthing emergency (9-1-1).  He literally left the conversation about salvaging our comatose relationship to go help her.  How dumb was I?

Soon after Cash was born, I got pregnant with Tallulah.  Bubba eventually took Cash and Tallulah to the goat shows without me to “give me a break”-- I stayed home to home to manage the other kids.  At home, Bubba easily convinced me that Sarah’s newly established home-daycare would be a great place to park the babies a few hours a week.  Sign me up!  I’m a huge fan of childcare.  I went to a few goat shows and was a little unsettled to see the degree to which Sarah (not Bubba) was tending my children; but I wrote that off, too-- she was their daycare provider after all.  But when I was present, she kept a distance of at least 100’ between us.  Still aloof…  In hindsight, there was a palpable tension in the air.

Lightning (duh)

I knew that Bubba and Sarah frequently texted back and forth—because Katherine told me so.  Who better than a teenage girl to spy on text messaging?  That tidbit sent up a red flag, so I confronted Bubba.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he cooed.  After having been married to the world’s worst philanderer for 18+ years, I desperately wanted to believe that “lightning would not strike twice,” so I trusted Bubba.  What’s that old saying: “believe half of what you see and none of what you hear,” right?

When my relationship with Bubba finally petered out, I said to a mutual friend, “Mark my words—Bubba will date Sarah.  She’s the perfect woman for him: she’s young and (maybe) naïve enough to have more kids (he wants more kids and I’m a bit burned out on that front), she owns goats, she drives a Suburban (his fav), and, to top it off, she is a daycare provider! What more could he want??” 

So when the letter arrived on my doorstep announcing the relationship I wasn’t at all surprised that they were dating.  What did surprise me, however, was that Bubba didn’t have the courage to tell me.  Twenty-first century “co-parenting” protocols require each party to tell the other before introducing children to a new significant other.  I knew those rules inside and out from having just signed the documents with The Ex-husband.  I am a compulsive rule follower: I told Bubba in writing about David before I introduced David to Cash and Tallulah (and I followed the other rules of not cheating, too – just sayin’).

All of this information flashed through my mind in the 60 seconds that I took me to process the anonymous letter and start dialing Bubba on my cell phone.  He made it to my house in record time.  

Bubba’s basic premise was that he was averse to telling me because he was afraid of how I would react.   I promptly, and loudly, regurgitated a lecture I frequently give to my five older children: you have to take responsibility for your actions, OWN them, even if the consequences are uncomfortable.  My motto with the kids is “NO SURPRISES.”  If you have a bad report card, for example, Mom and Dad will be way less angry if you tell them about it before they hear it from the teacher.  Not immediately addressing the issue only makes it more difficult in the end, because, my friend, the truth always comes out.  If you get ahead of the problem, the outcome is more manageable.  I guarantee it.

What man, or woman for that matter, has not learned this lesson by age 40?  Apparently Bubba missed the memo; his modus operendi for this dilemma (as well as most other sticky spots) was to stick his head in the sand and hope it would go away.  In our confrontation, he denied that their relationship began before he moved out, but I had my doubts based on my own experiences with the two of them.  No matter.  The real issue was not being upfront with me after the fact.

Bubba stood in front of me, “deer in the headlights.”  I don’t consider myself a scary person, but maybe I am.  Maybe having 7 kids has honed my mom-lecturing skills to a wickedly sharp point?

The first goat show of the season was 10 days away and we would all be there.  Bubba and his mom, Marge, would manage the babies while I assisted Katherine.  Sarah would be there with her three kids.  David was coming—his first goat show ever.  Katherine’s dad, The Ex, was tentatively planning on attending, too.  Uh oh.  This had the makings of a very…tense…weekend. 

The days flew by.  I pulled the trailer up to the barn to help Katherine load the goats. 

I practiced some deep breathing, meditation, and activating my chakras (can’t hurt), and I climbed up in the driver’s seat of the ‘Burb.  Time to go to this fine party.  “Take the bull by the horns.”

I practice what I preach, and I wanted to set an example for Katherine of how to walk into an…awkward…situation with grace and aplomb.  “The better you look, the more confident you feel,” I counseled. 

So, while Katherine groomed the goats the prior week, I groomed myself: hair appointment, eyebrow touch up, manicure (at a goat show, why?), facial, make-up consultation, etc.  I packed a hair dryer, flat iron, hair products, AND make-up.  An act so unlike me that both Katherine and David looked at me askance.  I’m really not that kind of girly-girl—at all.  But I could be, damn it.

As you will recall from my previous blog about “Trailering Goats,” I was already panicky about this goat show for a much more practical reason: how in God’s name was I going to back the trailer down a narrow, car lined alley to unload the goats?  And then park the trailer in the nearby commercial parking lot?  Here is what the alley looks like with no cars in it, so imagine it with every space filled with a long-body truck and packs of 4-H’ers with their parents and their rabbits/chickens/goats milling around.  There is no easy way to do this.

Once We made it through that unloading ordeal, We would have to maneuver the trailer into a car-sized parking space in a nearby parking lot – again, imagine the lot filled to overflowing with cars.  “Compact” is not an option for a 3-horse stock trailer:

Katherine and I had been practicing for this moment that day we bought the trailer and she drove it around the vacant parking lot.  As you will recall, our plan was for her to take the wheel and maneuver the blasted trailer.  Hence, the “We.”

Driving north, we passed Bubba and Sarah driving Bubba’s trailer south—going away from the show.  “Where are they going?” we pondered.  No matter.  We arrived at the fairgrounds right on schedule (I do love a schedule).  Fortunately, the show organizer had assigned Katherine pens as far away from Bubba and Sarah as possible.  After all, the Goat Show Circuit is a tight-knit group and there are no secrets (except, maybe from me it turns out). 

We pulled our rig head-in down the alley, unloaded the goats and mountains of gear, and braced ourselves to extract the trailer.  Katherine, age 15–no learner’s permit or anything—hopped into the driver’s seat, looked over her shoulder and inched the trailer down road in reverse.  And I do mean inched.  She drove at the “speed of dark.”  Our goat show posse, whom we hadn’t seen in months, watched on in silence—probably holding their breath like I was.  I stood behind the trailer smiling, waving, and shouting out minor corrections (“a little more left, a little more right, looking good!”).  It’s all about the positive attitude.  You can do it, Katherine!  Yay!

One down, one to go: the parking lot.  By some miracle, we accomplished that feat, too.  Luckily, the trailer could stay parked the rest of the weekend.  Phew.

Next, the decorating.  Go big or go home.  We donned our personalized logo-wear baseball caps and tied up our brand-spanking-new 4’ x 5” vinyl banner across our pens (marketing!); interlaced pink, green and silver garland, as well as fake flowers, through the fencing to “prettify” it; organized the myriad of buckets, boxes, electric cords, tool boxes, hay bags.  Katherine and I were not going to fade away in the back corner, no sirree.  We were going to make A Statement.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the goat show, Sarah and Bubba had mingled their goats in a row of adjacent pens.  Sarah had reappeared with her kids and was organizing their gear (no decorating though).  She was the virtual “one-armed paper hanger” over there; Bubba was nowhere in sight.  While Katherine put the finishing touches on our fanciful pens, I socialized with the other goat people.  “We are doing GREAT!” I exclaimed to all who asked.

The goats were all tucked in for the night, and Katherine and I headed out to dinner with a group of goat friends.

Peek a Boo

The next morning I woke up extra early to do my hair, makeup, and outfit.  In hindsight, I admit I was acting kooky.  But this primping gave me the confidence to go back out there with a smile on my face; sometimes that’s all that matters.

David drove up separately that Saturday morning, and the two of us watched the goat show from the (cold metal) bleachers.  Katherine did a bang up job.  She won her showmanship class with grace and finesse, including the impromptu part where she had to get on the microphone and judge her peers.  Not an “um,” not a giggle, not a stutter crossed her lips.  Katherine stood in the middle of the ring and scanned the audience, looking random people in the eye, as she explained to the crowd that Goat #1 was placed over Goat #2 for its better topline and shoulder connection.  I squeezed David’s knee—so proud of my girl!

Next Katherine choreographed the various classes with the efficiency of an ER nurse.  All by herself, she had every goat ready and at the gate right on cue.  She entered the ring with a pleasant expression on her face every time (showmanship!).  David and I wandered off to buy food and peruse the fair.  We came back and Katherine was still in her groove.  Goat in, goat set up, goat walking, goat set up, smile, exit.  Repeat.  Over and over.  All day long.  I occasionally left my perch in the bleachers to chat up a goat show friend.  We all had a lovely day.

Meanwhile, in the other corner of the goat show, Sarah was corralling all of Bubba’s goats as well as her own.  Bubba did not appear the entire weekend.  Poor Sarah had to wrangle Bubba’s feral goats, while coercing her children into showing her other goats.  By the end of it, Sarah’s kids had snuck off to the fair, leaving her to manage the goats by herself.

At the end of the show, Katherine and I loaded our docile herd back into the trailer, leisurely walking them four at a time down the city street to our parked trailer.  I helped Katherine un-decorate the pens and load the gear, and then we hit the road.  We passed Bubba driving up the highway in the opposite direction, towards the fairgrounds.  He was headed back to help Sarah load the animals after her crazy weekend of showing goats alone.  I suspect she was one of the very last exhibitors to leave the show.  Was it my imagination, or had Bubba intentionally waited for everyone to leave?

I felt bad for Sarah.  Apparently, she was less important to Bubba than the goats, too.  She was a generous, tolerant girlfriend to do all of Bubba’s work for him.  Meanwhile, the Goat Show Community watched on to see how the drama of Ex-Girlfriend and New-Girlfriend might unfold.  I am proud to say that there was zero drama.

In the end, I was so proud of both Katherine and me.  Katherine had truly managed her own goat show.  She was organized, timely, professional, friendly.  She proved to me once and for all that the Goat Project really is hers, not mine.  I am but the driver, bystander and financier.  As for me, I had survived the public outing of the relationship’s demise and I had done it with confidence and verve.  I was deeply touched by the warm welcome that Katherine and I received from the goat show community and I felt welcomed back into the fold as my own entity.  We were perfectly capable of showing goats on our own, thank you.  It would all be fine. 

As for parenting, I hope that Katherine learned firsthand that hiding from a difficult situation does not make the problem go away.  It’s scary to face the problem head on, but the fear subsides and you come out the other end a stronger person.  Remember: No Surprises and Own It.