The Rites of Spring

A sophisticated goat like myself sometimes gets tired of living in the country. There is no good coffee and no free wi-fi and just try to find a sushi bar or an art museum. Many times in the midst of a cold dreary mud-filled winter I have asked myself why I don't just move to the East Village and get a beret and stop worrying about whether or not the Nubians will find their way in from the rain.

Who can count the times I have stood in the barn, calling "this way, Boo! Go through the thing we call a 'door' and you will be inside! Walk toward the light!"

Never a card or a note of thanks or even an appreciative nod. Nothing.

And this winter was snowier and colder than most, and I was getting bone tired of it. But just when I was good and fed up, everything changed, as it always does. First off it got a lot warmer almost overnight. We went from sub-freezing temperatures every night to days in the 50s and nights in the 40s - ah, balmy!

And as soon as that happened, Scouty, who may be smarter than she looks - well, actually, she MUST be smarter than she looks - popped out her little mini-Nubian quads, the first kids of spring. I'm not a big fan of Nubians, but these have some Nigerian heritage and for some reason - maybe I am getting old - I just think they are cute as the dickens.

And what do you think happened that very night? Down below in the pond - Lost Beaver Lake, as we call it - the frogs started singing their beautiful froggy chorus, which signals the official start of spring.

So now I have started feeling sorry for the poor city people, instead of envying them, as I did all winter long.

How sad it must be to live in the city, with nothing but sushi and capuccino and free wi-fi to keep you from bursting into tears every single day, as you hunt hopelessly for a blade of grass, a frog, a baby goat to call your own.

Forgive me while I dry my eyes.