The Stig

My four goats Xena, Gretel, Heidi and Hoggle have disappeared off the face of the earth or at least into the depths of a Tikokino farm that is filled with goat-friendly gorges and cliffs. It is unlikely they will ever be caught. The pain of losing these four unbridled wild spirits has meant that I have had great difficulty even saying the word goat. That is until a couple of weeks ago.

My friend Rose's goat Brenda had triplets on 6 August 2010, two girls and a boy. She has been living on a farm so she could have access to a billy who not only sired triplets with Brenda but also with another nanny. Rose offered the male goat to me and I of course accepted. On 18 September we headed north towards Hastings in pouring rain, driving wind, the whole climatic gamut. There was no one around when we arrived at the farm so Rose went to find a farm worker who told us where the baby goats were housed.

Brenda was tied in a shed opposite the farm house near stalls full of bottle fed lambs who thought we were there to provide lunch. Rose had brought along a bag full of chopped apples and fed Brenda by hand until her friends Lesley and Rowan arrived home from shopping. Rowan released the triplets who bounded out and began to help themselves to "Moosli" calf food out of a bag. He grabbed the wether and popped him on my knee which nearly caused the poor little boy to have a serious case of conniptions. Rowan then fitted him with a collar and chain as he felt he needed to be tethered until he was tamed.

After a cup of tea in front of the fire Rose and I prepared to leave, me with the little goat standing on my knee looking out the front window of the car. He was quite disturbed on the way home but then decided to climb down by my feet where he sat quietly for the remainder of the journey.

It was still cold and rainy when we arrived home so we left the little goat standing on the passenger seat looking out across the paddocks while we goat proofed the woodshed where he would be living initially. Rose tipped a large cardboard box on its side for him to sleep in and we spread dry sawdust and the last of my hay on the ground. When I opened the car door to get him out he had christened the car seat. We settled the kid into the woodshed where he stood small and alone and slightly scared. After Rose went home I sat with him for half an hour until I was sure he was settled. However when I went inside the cottage he cried. And cried. And cried. Like a human baby wanting its mother. This continued until darkness fell when he quietened.

Rowan had provided me with a partial bag of Moosli and some milk powder along with a bottle and teat. However to get the little goat to suck on this I had to hold him between my knees and force it into his mouth. This led to some differences of opinion until he managed to bite the teat length ways so it was unusable. However I found that he would drink the milk mixture if I poured it into an ice cream container so it all turned out well in the end.

I had a few suggestions for names but suddenly "Stig" popped into my mind and wouldn't pop out again. Perhaps because he resembled Top Gear's The Stig in that he was white and had large googly eyes. As the week wore on he began to recognise me as the bringer of food and would bellow like a spoilt three year old when I left him alone. After a day I took Stig for a walk on his chain and he trotted happily along so in the end I let him go and he ran after me. He also ran after the roosters which caused some noisy consternation amongst the poultry population. He became so attached to me that he followed me inside the house and I discovered him sizing up the bed in the spare room. Stig was informed that that was not an option.

SOME SAY that he only knows two facts about humans: one is that they're really just funny looking goats, the other is that they're cruel with holders of Moosli. We just know him as The Stig. (With apologies to Jeremy Clarkson who does much funnier introductions on Top Gear).