The Thanksgiving Goat
A few years ago, I enjoyed a very interesting Thanksgiving dinner at my in-law’s lovely home in Nashville, Tennessee. Since my husband is such the avid outdoorsman, we stay around town this time of year so he won’t be far from the hunting camp. My in-laws live on a farm, nestled between the Davidson and Williamson county line, in a hundred plus year old, extremely southern home with a large front porch. They purchased the land back in the eighties for next to nothing, and it is where my husband grew up. And it is on this farm, where he developed his deep love for animals.
The home and land have seen many an animal throughout the family’s tenure. It is a dream habitat for all creatures great and small. On a recent road trip, my sister- in-law, brother-in-law, and mother-in-law all tried to name the dogs they’ve had through the years but lost count after thirty-two. They’ve housed pet turkeys, chickens named after local politicians, a pig no one was particularly fond of, a moody donkey named Lucy, a cat named Mur Kitty (short for “come here kitty” obviously), and so on. Being an animal lover myself, I often day dream of what other animals we can bring to my in-laws. A highland cow is at the top of my list. My childhood dream of a mini horse is right behind it, but I digress.
That particular Thanksgiving, around 2014 or so, we settled in and gathered around my mother-in-law’s gorgeous round table in the dining room. It is one of my favorite rooms in her home. The walls are red with blue and white china perfectly hung in particular patterns above antiques adorned with silver serving trays and glass figurines. (She has quite the eye.) The floors in the timeless room are original to the house and creak with each step, which make me love it even more. And of course there is a beautiful threadbare oriental rug underneath the claw foot table that she most likely hand picked and flawlessly haggled for. I noticed before the dinner was just starting to be served that my mother-in –law whispered something to both her sons, with a stern look on her face. She had just returned from taking the children to see the animals. I could sense the energy shift in the room. I waited for the appropriate time, most likely when the rolls were being passed around the beautifully set table, and nudged my husband.
“Taylor, what did your mom say to you and Nat?” I whispered.
Taylor looked around at his family members, then our young nieces and nephews, made sure no one could hear, and quietly responded, “The goat died.”
“What?” I said in a surprised and louder voice.
“Shhhh! We don’t want the kids to know. They think he’s sleeping.”
I looked around the table, then at the five oblivious children, and continued on with my Thanksgiving dinner, pretending I didn’t know about the recent passing of the beloved goat, Rocky. Now, Rocky was the last of the goats on the farm. He wasn’t particularly friendly, but I thought he was cute. He had a good, long life of running around with the donkey, Lucy, and I do believe that it was simply his time to go. We believe he died of old age and natural causes. We also believe he could have picked a better time than right before Thanksgiving dinner.
Between the clinks and clanks of the fine silver against the antique china, I whispered again to Taylor, “What are we going to do with the dead goat?”
“Nat and I will take care of it during dessert. We’ve called the lady to pick him up, but we don’t want to ruin the kid’s night. It’s fine.”
I was confused. Who was this lady they called? The goat coroner? I thought more about the situation as I continued on with my turkey and dressing.
The delicious and fancy Thanksgiving dinner eventually ended. Wine was being passed around, and I began to wonder if we were drinking away our sorrows for ole Rocky or toasting to the blessings we were thankful for. I looked out the window to the front porch and noticed Lucy, the donkey, peering through. That wasn’t unusual as she liked to hangout close to the house when the weather turned cooler because she could feel the warmth from the heat inside. Although, maybe this time, Lucy was trying to tell us about her friend’s passing.
When dessert finally came, Taylor and his brother, Nat, dismissed themselves. “Where are they going?” asked my nephew.
I simply responded, “Oh, they have a Thanksgiving mission that only dads can go on. They will be right back. Let’s go around and tell what we are thankful for while we have dessert!” I looked at my in-laws who seemed to think the situation was normal, so I went with it.
As I took a few bites of my pumpkin pie, I caught a glimpse of Taylor and his brother through the window on their night mission. During the children’s speeches of thankfulness, the glow of headlamps moved past the window, down the long gravel driveway, getting smaller and smaller as they gained distance, carrying a blanket wrapped Rocky to his final resting place. After a while, they returned from their top secret task as goat pallbearers and pretended like everything was normal.
After a few hours with family, we loaded up the car and our small son to head home. As we reached the end of the long, gravel driveway, I did not see any sign of Rocky. “Where’s the goat?”
Taylor didn’t bat an eye. “Oh, I guess the lady came to pick him up with the truck.”
“Who is this lady that picks up dead animals on Thanksgiving?”
“I don’t know. She’s just the lady,” Taylor responded, making the turn toward our house. I wondered to myself if I had stumbled into some animal mafia situation as we drove home.
And so was the eventful Thanksgiving with Rocky’s passing. Since then, there have been no goat replacements. Lucy, the donkey, still remains on the farm. She eventually grew lonely and broke through the fence of the horse pasture and has taken up with the three brown horses that are kept in the back. She seems happy, though.
So as we approach Thanksgiving, may you enjoy your time with family and/ or friends. And if you think about it, raise a glass to Rocky- God rest his soul.
Looking for a fun and interesting activity? Why not try goat yoga if you’re in Nashville. Click here to access the website and sign up.
Lynchburg soap company out of Tennessee features certified non- GMO goats milk to gently moisturize skin. Check out there website here to order.
Belle Chevre Inc of Elkmont, Alabama makes fine goat cheese spreads and French style hand formed goat cheeses. Try the “Southern Belle” at your next get together by ordering here.