Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"He's talking to ghosts," Roger said with a straight face. Qwilleran could never be sure whether the young reporter was serious or not. He said, "Iris had a theory that a house exudes good or evil, depending on its previous occupants."

"My mother-in-law preaches the same thing," said Roger.

"How is Mildred, by the way? I haven't seen her lately."

"She's up to her eyebrows in good causes, as usual. Still trying to lose weight. Still carrying the torch for that husband of hers. I think she should get a lawyer and untie the knot."

"And how's Sharon and... the baby?" "Sharon's gone back to teaching. And that kid! I never knew a baby could be so much fun!... Well, I can't stay for dessert. I've got to get home so Sharon can go to her club meeting. Thanks, Qwill. Best meal I've had in a month!"

Qwilleran remained and ordered Tipsy's old-fashioned bread pudding with a pitcher of thick cream for pouring, followed by two cups of coffee powerful enough to exorcise demons and domesticate poltergeists. Then he drove back to North Middle Hummock to cram for his interview with the goatherd.

After skimming through chapters on breeding, feeding, milking, de-homing, castrating, hoof trimming, barn cleaning and manure management, he made a decision: It would be better to walk the plank than to raise goats. Furthermore, there was the danger of such diseases as coccidiosis, demodectic mange, bloat, and foot rot, not to mention birth defects such as sprung pasterns, pendulous udder, blind teat, leaking orifice, and hermaphroditism. It was no wonder the goat-girl looked worried.

After this briefing he knew, however, what questions to ask, and he felt a growing admiration for Kristi and her choice of career. Perhaps, as Roger said, she was flighty in high school, but who isn't at that age? He was looking forward to the interview. When Polly Duncan called to ask if he planned to attend the reception at Exbridge & Cobb, Qwilleran was glad he had an honest excuse. He said, "I'm interviewing a farmer at two o'clock."

Kristi greeted him on Saturday afternoon in white coveralls. She had been assisting at a kidding, she said. "Buttercup had trouble, and I had to help. Geranium is ready, too, and I have to check her every half hour. You can hear her bleating, poor thing."

"Do you name all your goats?"

"Of course. They all have their own personalities."

As they walked toward the goat barns Qwilleran asked, how many kids Buttercup had produced.

"Two. I'm building up my own herd instead of buying animals. It takes time, but it costs less."

"How much does a kid weigh at birth?"

"About six pounds. For a while I'll feed them from a bottle three to five times a day."

Qwilleran said, "There's one gnawing question on my mind. How or why did you get involved with goats?"

Kristi said gravely, "Well, I met a goat named Petunia, and it was love at first sight, so I took a correspondence course and then got a job at a goat farm. We were living in New England then."

"What was your husband doing all this time?"

"Not much of anything. That was the problem," she said with a bitter grimace.

They were approaching an area of small barns, sheds and wire-fenced yards in which were small shade trees with protected trunks. A barncat was squirming to get under the fence. In the nearest yard a dozen goats of different colors were nuzzling each other's heads, lounging on the ground, or standing motionless with passive expressions. They turned sad, gentle eyes to the two visitors, and Qwilleran glanced quickly at Kristi's eyes, which were also sad and gentle.

"I like that big black one with a striped face," he said. "What kind is he?"

"She," Kristi reminded him. "These are all does. That one is a Nubian, and I call her Black Tulip. Notice her Roman nose and elegantly long ears. She's from very good stock. The white one is Gardenia. She's a Saanen. I really love her; she's so feminine. The fawn-colored one with two stripes on the face is Honeysuckle."

"What's that structure in the middle of the yard?"

"A feeder. They get nutritional feed, but they also graze in the pasture. The farmer who leases the Fugtree acreage manages my pastureland. Students come in after school to clean the milking parlor and the feeders and things like that. And then I have a friend who comes out from Pickax on weekends to help."

There was a commotion in the farthest field. Two goats were butting heads, and a third was butting a barrel. "They're bucks," Kristi explained. "We keep them away from the milking area because of the odor."

"Then 'smelling like a billy goat' is not just a figure of speech?" Kristi was forced to agree. "Would you like to pet the does?" she asked. "They like attention. Don't make any sudden moves. Let them smell your hand first."

The does came to the fence and rubbed against the wire, then turned drowsy eyes toward Qwilleran, purring in a gentle moan, but their coats felt rough to a hand accustomed to stroking cats.