Waiting With Lama

Favorites. Everyone has them, and even in a herd of over a hundred dairy goats, there are always a few that stand out. My special girl is an eight-year-old white Saanen doe, called Red. I'm not sure why she's called Red, but she came to us six years ago with that name and it's hers. Red is getting old now, and I wince when I see her walking into the parlor, looking like the caprine equivalent of an old woman. I know her time is coming, but she's had a good life, and she'll stay here until the end.

My daughter's favorite is a young doe called Brownie, and in this case, she is easily identified by her matching color. Brownie comes when you call her name, and I have many stories I could tell about that sweet little goat, but this tale isn't about Red or Brownie. It's about Lama; the goat my son, Sam made a pet of when he still lived at home and helped with chores.

Lama's name was coined from her mother's breeding. She is a cross-bred with the snow-white coat of her Swiss Saanen ancestors and the tiny ears of the American bred La Mancha breed. Hence -- La-Ma which soon became condensed to one word.

Lama is average in every way including her milk production. This year, she is producing just five pounds of milk a day, which means she needs to go down the road, out the door, farewell . . . you get the drift. We aim to keep only does giving eight pounds plus, so when we decided to thin the herd out recently, Lama was marked to be sold.

Knowing Sam had endeared himself to Lama, I called and asked him if he minded. "No, of course not," he said. "If she's not making the grade, you should sell her."

A few days later, Lama ambled through in her usual, not-in-a-particular-hurry way and jumped on the deck to be milked. I thought of the days past, when she would search out my son, and walk to him to be petted, and have her head scratched. She'd always wait on the way out too, because he'd sneak her an extra handful of grain as she left. Even though he's been gone a while now, to this day, when leaving the parlor, she still turns her head and looks, as though she hopes he might walk through the door at any minute.

A lump formed in my throat, and I blurted out to my husband, "I can't sell Lama."

Being the understanding soul he is, he didn't even question me. "Take her out and put her back in the good pen," he said.

For you see, Lama loves Sam. Even though she doesn't get to see him much anymore, she recognized the special qualities of my soldier son, who will deploy this August to fulfill his responsibilities as a soldier-medic in Afghanistan.


In a few months, Lama and I will both be looking toward that door, hoping, waiting and longing for the day my brave, young son walks back through that door, safe home at last.

I'm glad I won't be waiting alone.