What more could one ask for? We lived on a beautifully treed acreage, beside a lake. We even had our own welcoming committee to escort our guests down our quarter-mile-long driveway. And . . . we didn't have to pay our staff. It was our malamute that would announce a visitor's approach. As soon as Skipper heard a vehicle slow down to turn in our drive, he would give one guttural bark; then springing from where he had been curled up on our doorstep, he would bound up the road to the gate. His bark was like a sergeant major's command order. His "soldiers" lined up behind him. Maggie, the goat--his shadow--was first; then George, the lamb; with the others, as though knowing where they stood in ranking order, following: Mocha and Simba, our Persian and Siamese cats; Scruffy, our non-descript terrier, who was generally off in the woods barking at squirrels; and last of all came shy Chrissy, the cocker spaniel. She had only recently been adopted and knew her place. It wasn't unusual for Peter and Cottontail (need I mention, they were the rabbits?), and even old Methuselah, the bantam rooster, to join the parade as well.

By the time any caller reached our house, he had broken out in a cold sweat, for fear of having accidentally run over a delegate or two.

And then one day it actually happened. George, being a sheep, wasn't very smart? (Ever heard of a smart sheep?) My husband and I had gone out, and with us were Scruffy and Chrissie; so there was no one to look after George when the visitor, Don, ventured down the drive. Skipper's responsibility was to escort, not to watch the flock. That job was up to the other dogs. After all, what else did they have to do? And of course, Skipper had Maggie to keep an eye on.

Oh, might I add? Don was a first-time caller, so he wasn't aware of what awaited him when he turned in our drive. Slowly he proceeded down the curved, treed roadway, to our back door. Fighting his way past the animal entourage, he knocked on our door, hoping to find one of us home. Disappointed, he gingerly picked his way back to his car, warding off welcomes from a dog, the cats, a goat, and a lamb--and maybe even the rabbits and chickens. The chugging, spluttering, and bumping of his outdated Volkswagen "bus," as he eased it slowly into reverse, was a welcome sound. He breathed a sigh of relief. But just as he was pulling away he felt a thump. He glanced in his rear-view mirror.

"Oh no! Surely not! It couldn't be!" Leaving his motor running the sedate schoolteacher jumped from the car, sprinting back to where he saw what looked like a pile of wool in the driveway. The lamb! He'd driven over the lamb! Dropping to his knees he rolled the lamb over, groping for his heart. George's head lolled to one side, his tongue lay limp in his partly open mouth, and his eyes had begun to glaze over. Don stood up, retching. He ran back to his running car, his hand over his mouth. He had to get out of there.

An hour later, having bumped into us in town, the distraught "murderer" stuttered out his confession. Hiding our own feelings of loss, we tried to assure him that he had actually done us a favor.

"A favor? You call killing your lamb a fav--?" His hands still shaking, he took out his immaculately folded, sparkling white handkerchief, and swiped at his brow.

"You see; it's like this." Over a cup of coffee at his place (he declared he'd never come to our place again--and he never did), we explained about George, and how it was he had done us a favor.
. . .

When we moved to this place on the lake we had had big plans. We'd get a few chickens, for eggs; raise a few rabbits, for meat; grow a few vegetables to put away for the winter. That's all. No problem, just a mini-farm.

But one day we heard of a place that sold goats. "A goat would be nice," I said to my husband at the time, "for milk." . . .. And that's where our plan went wrong. Five minutes after the tiny goat was in our car--and had already adopted Skipper as her mother--we had fallen in love with her. She was already a pet, not a farm animal.

A month after we got Maggie a neighboring farmer dropped in on us, asking us if we would lend him a hand. It was lambing time. What did we know about lambing? But, no matter, we went. The next day the farmer was back. "I 'av a 'rubber,'" he announced. Then looking around, he said, "But, na, you wouldn" know what ta do with it. He turned to go.

My mind began to whirl. A rubber? I looked at my feet. I never wore rubbers. "A 'rubber?'" I asked. "What do you mean, a 'rubber'“?

"I mean a lamb what's mama won't 'ave 'im. Ain't no other ewe will neither. Guess I'll jest have ta destroy 'im." Again he turned to go.

"Destroy him? You mean ... k-kill him?" My eyes filled with tears. "How much? ... How much do you want for him?" I stuttered.

"Naw! You don' want 'im. Too much trouble. 'ave to be bottle-fed, treated like a baby. Too much trouble." He started walking towards his pickup.

The blood gushed through my head. "Have to treat him like ... a baby? Too much ... trouble?" Then I nearly shouted the words: "How much?"

And that's how George came to live with us. "We'll raise him for meat," I said to my husband at the time. But he--and I--knew that George would become just another pet.

Every four hours, day and night, I would mix George's formula. He must have been able to tell time, because he was always waiting, his tail switching in anticipation. Before I was able to settle myself on the doorstep, the bottle in my hand, he would begin to clamber for my lap. I had made the mistake of holding him--like a bay--while feeding him his bottle. But unlike a baby, he'd more than doubled in size in a month.
. . .

"What would I have done if he'd have grown much bigger?" I said to our friend, in an attempt to comfort him. Accepting a third cup of coffee, I continued, "He was already over twenty pounds. Soon he'd have squashed me, as I fed him his bottle. He didn't seem interested in being weaned." I laughed a weak laugh, still grieving inwardly at the loss of my "baby." Quite obviously the devastation was beginning to ease from Don's face. "Besides,” I went on, "George could never have become bottled meat." Swallowing my inward tears with the last of my coffee, I stood up to leave.