There were to be two does (doe is the proper term for a female dairy goat), one with a buck kid and one with a doeling. The family had already decided that the buckling, which was destined to be meat, would be mine. Nice, I thought sarcastically, but I didn't complain. It would have been pointless anyway and I really didn't much care.

The big day arrived and Chris showed up in the old red International scout they drove, got out and carried one of the milkers in his arms towards the goat pen. I was surprised that they were small enough to carry that way- these were does in milk, after all- but that was most of the reason we were getting them. They had been accidentally bred by their own sire at a much younger age than would have been ideal. I easily picked up the other doe and carried her to the pen. She only weighed about 60 lbs. The kids were tiny, only a week old, and easily carried by the other children. One doe had a splotch of blue on her back, and so did one of the kids. The other doe and kid had pink splotches. Jaylene had marked them with food coloring so we could tell which kid belonged to which doe, because all four of the goats were pure white in color. They were Saanen-Alpine crosses.

Although I'd been slated to receive the buckling, it was decided that one of the milkers would be mine, because Raphah and Sarah already owned full grown does, and we were going to get more goats, too. The other would be Rachel's. Sarah got the buckling; I don't remember who got the doeling. I named my doe Lily, because she was pure white and Rachel's doe became Sylvia.

All the things I thought I'd hated about goats flew right out the window when I met Lily. I looked into her calm eyes as she mm-mmm-mmmed quietly to me, and fell in love. She didn't smell bad at all. She actually smelled kind of nice, as a clean dairy doe should smell. Her coat was very soft and she stood calmly as I petted her, seemingly enjoying the attention. Lily was so different from Della and Penny that it was hard to believe that they were all the same species!

Learning to milk was far harder than learning how to split wood or spin wool. It was an exercise in frustration, and by the time I was done my hands and arms ached and I was in tears. I was so afraid that if I left even a drop of excess milk in her udder, she might get mastitis. Lily stood patiently while I struggled with her teats and udder, so unlike Snow, who'd tried to snatch a mouthful of of my hair in exchange for my clumsy efforts. She and I formed a bond. I gave her all the love my aching heart held, and she would stand hugging me with her head and neck as I wept upon her shoulder, even if I was like that for half an hour. So sweet, so gentle and patient and kind, Lily gave me something to wake up for, to get out of bed for in the morning instead of rolling over and crying some more, hating to face the day. I still struggled a lot, but she was always so happy to see me, and her presence was so soothing, that I got out bed every day for her and kept her milking routine, every 12 hours, checked on her many times during the day where I'd tethered her out, so she wouldn't get tangled up. She was the healing balm my soul needed, in the most unlikely package I could have expected.