Animal behaviourists will tell you that only humans have emotions and empathy. Animals 'don't think, can't reason and merely respond to stimuli'. Here's a story that shows a different side.
Goatrude and Gwendoline came into my life one day when my friend Gordon pulled up in my driveway.
“I've got a present for you,” he said. “It's on the back of the ute.”
He pulled back the cover, revealing two tiny feral kids cowering in a corner. Only three days old, they had been orphaned in a goat eradication programme.
“What am I supposed to do with those?” I asked Gordon.
“You know how to rear calves,” he said. “It's just the same.”
“But,” I protested, “it's not. I can't get around at the moment.”
I should explain that I had just come out of hospital after an accident. I was on crutches, my right leg plastered to the hip.
“Well,” Gordon looked at them. “It's either that, or.......” He drew his finger across his throat.
So, suitably blackmailed, I became the goats' surrogate mum.
We made a home for them among hay bales stored in the old cowshed. Four times a day I struggled up the hill to them on my crutches with bottles of milk, and they quickly learned to feed and became tame.
As they grew, the little goats ventured beyond their hay bale home. They were a joy to watch as they explored their world, always investigating new things. Goats love to climb and jump on anything they can find. Cars were these girls' particular favourite.
Not many people know that goats are very musical. Goatrude and Gwendoline quickly discovered that different vehicles made different sounds when danced on, and they would magically appear whenever a new vehicle drove up, eager to try out its musical possibilities. It's amazing how fickle one's friends can be when their car is likely to become part of a goat orchestra.
Wherever the little girls roamed, they always returned to the old cowshed at night. One evening, when the kids were around three months old, I was working in the cowshed yard while they played around a large concrete water trough about a metre high. Its sides were a handspan wide, plenty of room for agile little goats to skip around.
All of a sudden I was interrupted by an anguished cry. I turned around to see Goatrude perched on the edge of the trough, bleating, her sister flailing around in the cold water below.
I rushed over and pulled Gwendoline out. She was shocked, miserable and shivering. Goats don't handle being wet, so I rubbed her down thoroughly and tucked them both into their hay bales for the night.
A couple of hours later I was cooking tea when there was a knock at the door. Who could that be on a winter's night, I wondered? I wasn't expecting any visitors.
Another knock. I opened the door and to my surprise found two little goats, one chilled and trembling, the other worried and bleating.
Shocked to see Gwendoline still badly affected by her involuntary swim, I brought them inside the house. Goatrude watched while I wrapped her sister in an old tee shirt and made a bed for her with a hot water bottle. Then, apparently satisfied that Gwendoline was in safe hands, she let me take her back up the hill to her cowshed home.
Next morning Gwenni, fully recovered, happily rejoined her sister. The goats never came to the house again.