Breath of Life

by Emma Treut

A large part of raising dairy goats is the birthing process. The milk does not arrive until the baby goats come. When the grass starts to push its way out of the cold ground, I know that the season of birth will soon be upon me.

The dark stillness of the night rushes out to greet me as I step outside. It is midnight as I make my way to the goat barn for yet another routine check of the pregnant does. I peek my head inside, flashlight in hand. I notice a doe off by herself and the slight rustle of straw as she paces. As I walk to her, I see the visible signs of birth on the way. I stroke her gently and murmur to her quietly. My breath quickens as the reality of it catches up to me. I bustle her into the pen already set up for kidding. Once she is settled, I turn from her and quickly grab my kidding bag from the garage; this bag is my lifesaver. Birth is never clean. Then the waiting begins. I go to and from the house, leaving her for a while, only to come check on her a few moments later. My heart beats fast, but I am outwardly collected. I mostly just sit with her, and occasionally talk to her reassuringly. This helps to calm us both down.

Things progress. The doe starts to push in earnest; her sides rippling with contractions. I wince as she strains; I too feel her pain. I stay with her, watching her closely and comforting her in between the bouts of her struggle. Sometimes I will step back, giving her room when I feel she no longer wishes me to be close to her. Each of my goats deals with birth differently. Some wish you to be there at all times, stroking them, telling them how brave they are. Others don’t need my support. Birth is a private affair, not for hundreds of cheering spectators. It is a quiet, beautiful kind of accomplishment.

However well prepared I am, sometimes things go wrong in the birthing process. I watch my goats very closely and carefully during their labor. I just get a gut feeling that something is wrong. When this happens, a calm of sorts comes over me, and I suddenly know what to do. I hesitate for a moment, and then move forward with my plan. I reach inside her first, trying to find the source of the problem. Sometimes a gentle pull is all that is needed, or a repositioning of a kids hoof will do the trick. Other times, I know to call the veterinarian. When this is necessary, I bustle around, heart drumming in my chest, breath coming fast and short, and ready my little Chevy truck for her transportation. As I drive, I am wound as a tight ball of yarn. When I arrive at the vet’s, I am still tight, but my breathing has calmed down. I know that he will do his best to help her. I hardly say a word; my face is white stone. He asks whether I am sure she is in full stage labor, as he doesn’t feel anything. I confidently nod my head. As the Veterinarian works, I watch him as I hold my beloved doe, stroking her quietly, heart still racing, but body outwardly quiet. As he pulls the kids out, one by one, my heart starts to slow a little. I concentrate on cleaning the kids up. I dry them off efficiently but with wonder, as they make their first cries. When I finish with a kid, I scoot the newborn towards its mother, who immediately starts licking her baby, soothingly and briskly with her rough little tongue. I sigh as the last of her young is brought to her. My shoulders release, my heart is quiet once more, and a sense of joy and peace sweep over me. I thank him sincerely, and load the doe and her offspring back into my truck. As I drive, I frequently look back at them, checking on the newest members of my herd, a large smile on my face.

As I settle the new mother and her offspring back into their makeshift stall at home, I watch them. Tears come to my eyes for the sheer power of the scene playing out before me. I kneel beside the mother, stroking her. I pick up a kid and gently stick her under her mother’s belly, face pointing towards a teat. I coax her to it, spraying milk onto her little mouth, enticing her to her first meal. She protests at first, as I force the teat into her tiny mouth. She refuses to cooperate. I try again and again. Finally, the moment of truth comes as her mouth starts to move around the teat and milk starts to flow into her tiny rumen. As she drinks, I watch the other kids take their first wobbly steps; they fall but keep getting up. They start to get the hang of it. I laugh with delight at this little scene. When the little doe is done with her first meal, I repeat the process with the other kids, making sure they get what they need so desperately. After the kids are taken care of, I bring a bucket of warm molasses water to their mother, along with some grain and hay. A much deserved meal for her. I leave them then, barely able to tear myself away from the mother and her children.

I tramp back into the house, my emotions still running on high. I flop down in a chair, truly exhausted. It is a good kind of exhaustion, a beautiful and wonderful kind. It tells of new life, joy, and a sense of accomplishment. I love being a part of a new life coming into this world. It brings a sense of meaning and belonging into my life.