Goat Girl

“Can we pet the goats?” Ian asks Goat Girl, who’s fondling one of the goats with both hands. Rubbing the goat’s little mouth sides, cooing at her with kissy noises. The goat stands patiently in an outdoor enclosure, her head leaning over the fence, the better for fondling.

            We’ve only been here for two days, but Ian and I immediately established a walking routine. How could we not? The calm, warm, redwood scented air and soothing massive shade from these giants beckoned us from the moment we landed here. Who knew that Aptos had an idyllic redwood forest above the sea?

            Tromping down the shady road, we spotted just one other walker. A mom with a stroller, pushing baby up the hill. No mask. She smiled and waved. I smiled and waved back, thinking about how much has changed in the last month with more and more people getting vaccinated. Ian and I have been vaccinated for weeks now, and so we, too, wore no masks this morning. But I know that not everyone is safe. Many young people still hadn’t gotten their shots. So, when Ian asked Goat Girl, who wasn’t wearing a mask and made no effort to retrieve one from a pocket, if we could pet the goats, I had my reservations.

            I mean, I guess I’m supposed to be immune. But Goat Girl? She’s young. Maybe in her 30s or early 40s? I can’t tell. She’s not a senior citizen. Thus, I assume she wasn’t vaccinated. But who knows? Maybe being a Goat Caretaker is an Essential Worker in Santa Cruz county and she had her shots months ago.

            Now, she turns and grins at us, nodding to Ian, “Sure, you can pet them.”

            Eagerly, Ian steps up to the Goat Plate. Holds out his hand and one of the goats meanders over to him, nuzzling his hand.

            I follow suit. Holding out my hand, but still, I’m anxious about the no mask situation. Do I ask Goat Girl if she’s had her shots? Does it even matter since both Ian and I have, and so we’re safe; never mind about her. If she’s not concerned, then I guess I shouldn’t be either. It’s not like we’ll ever see her again.

            Yet....I feel uneasy. I could dig my mask out of my pocket to demonstrate mask etiquette awareness. But I don’t. Why not?

            The goats.

            They are so cute that I forget about the lack of masks as I start to pet the rough goat fur on the top of one of their heads.

            “What are their names?” I ask.

            “The one you’re petting is Ella....and that one over there? That’s Earthstar. She’s not as friendly.”

            I shoot a look over at Earthstar. She stares back at me, not budging from her little hill in the middle of the enclosure. Well, with a name like Earthstar, maybe she belongs on another planet.

            “What kind of goats are they?” Ian asks.

            “They’re Nigerian Dwarfs.”

            “They don’t look like dwarfs!” Ian chuckles, scratching Ella on the top of her head.

            “Yeah, well, Earthstar is a bit of a Tank.”

            We all laugh as Goat Girl goes on to tell us how she milks the goats, uses the milk to make butter and buttermilk. The fat content of the milk. The neighbors across the road who love the goat buttermilk. How she’s raised kids for years now and has a clientele that buys her Goat Goods.

            Maybe I’m right. She is an essential worker and had her shots months ago. Goat Milk is a necessity in the hills of Aptos.

            I glance down at my Fitbit watch. It’s getting late and we need to check out of the Tiny House soon. I nudge Ian, “We should get going.”

            “But they’re so cute! Look she doesn’t want me to stop patting her!”

            Goat Girl laughs. “Oh, she’d let you do that all day long if you were willing!”

            Ella looks at us with her sideways goat eyes. Saying to us, you better not leave? Or, that she doesn’t care one way or the other. Goat Girl is there. Ella’s guaranteed pats for life.

            “C’mon, honey,” I urge. “Let’s go. It’s getting late.”

            “Oh, okay....” Reluctantly, Ian stops petting Ella. Ella immediately meanders over to Goat Girl who resumes the petting.

            “Thanks for lettin us pet them,” I call out as we start our tromp back up the hill.

            “No problem,” Goat girl grins, resuming her cooing kissy noises.

            I don’t say anything to Ian about the lack of masks. Am I just being paranoid? Isn’t it time to toss that fear aside and get back to living?

            I’m not sure. I still have my doubts.

            But petting goats is a good distraction for a few minutes from the anxieties of the pandemic.

            A small 7 note melody echoes through the redwoods, floats up as the bird gains its voice. I breathe in the warm scented air and take a step up the hill, the sun beginning to rise in the blue blue sky. The song follows me for a time, then drifts away. I glance up into the trees, but don’t see anyone. The bird is off and away.

            And so are we.