My Gentle Barn by Ellie Laks

from the pound. I was being the voice for the voiceless. I was seeing this poor soul and speaking up for her. I was doing what no one else would do, what no one had ever done for me. Trembling with this surging life force, I knew I’d found my way back to that peculiar groove that had been carved out especially for me.
    This aliveness carried me through the rest of the day as Jesse and I sat by Mary’s side, with tourists taking our picture. At closing time I asked the owner again if I could have or buy the goat.
    Again the woman said no.
    “OK,” I said. “I’ll be back to see Mary in the morning.”
    At the crack of dawn the next day I got myself and Jesse dressed and we showed up once again at the petting zoo. We sat all day by Mary’s side, petting her and talking to her and giving her water from a bottle and a bowl that I’d snuck inside in my purse.
    “Where’s Mary’s nose?” I would ask Jesse, and he would touch her soft nose with his little fingers. “Where is your nose?” I would then ask, and he’d touch his own nose. “Where are Mary’s feet?” I’d ask. We’d move on to stomach and chin and ears, and this was how our day went, with my son climbing in and out of my lap and Mary helping me teach him about himself and the world around him.
    All through the day, Mary would find my eyes and lock her gaze onto mine. Those yellow goat eyes with pupils that narrow into thin, horizontal rectangles, like little mail slots for secret messages. She’d gaze at me again and again and send me tiny messages that beseeched me to please get her the hell out of there.
    This went on day after day, with us showing up in the morning, sitting by Mary’s side for the entire day—leaving her only to take little side trips to the other animals to keep Jesse engaged. Every evening at closing time, I’d ask again to take the goat home, and each and every evening the woman said no. Jesse would conk out in the car on the way home, and I’d put him straight to bed. Scott would return late in the evening, and I tried more than once to explain what I was up to, warning him I might be bringing home a goat. But I didn’t get the sense that he believed me, even knowing what he did about my tendencies.
    This zoo vigil lasted twelve days. On the thirteenth morning, the owner finally cracked. As soon as she spotted me, she practically yelled, “Fine, OK, take the goat!” and a cigarette cough shook her body. “But just get the hell out of here!”
    With my heart full up to the brim, I carried Mary to my Ford Explorer with Jesse on my back. When we got home I shut the gate between the grassy yard and the barnyard, and carried Mary into the barn. All eight of my dogs lined up at the fence, yipping with tails wagging, eager to meet the new “dog.”
    “Sorry, guys,” I told them. “Mary is very sick and very weak. She’s in no shape to play with you.”
    I didn’t know a thing about taking care of a goat, but that was a small hurdle compared to the vigil I’d just carried out. I would learn about goats the way I’d learned about dogs and cats and birds and rabbits—through intuition, and by asking lots of questions. I called around for a referral for a veterinarian who treated goats and found one who made house calls with his mobile vet truck. When he arrived, I opened my big side gate, and he drove right into the barnyard and setup shop. Dr. Geissen agreed that Mary looked pregnant, but after a thorough examination he determined otherwise.
    “There are no fetuses,” he said. “She’s just been bred so many times, her belly has assumed that shape and stayed that way.”
    I was relieved; not that I would have minded baby goats, but Mary’s body was in such bad shape, she needed all her energy for healing.
    “Now, let’s have a look at that tumor,” the vet said, and he asked me to hold on to Mary so he could get a proper look.
    The tumor was large and oozing and awful to look at, but it turned out to have a