OLD GOAT IS DOWN

There was a feller that lived about six miles from us over near Stanford. He had bought an old green Ford Pickup truck with the idea of buying and selling livestock. Most of the farmers didn't own a truck to haul animals to the sale barn. This Mr. Taylor would go up and down the countryside looking for animals to buy at a bargain. Sometimes, someone would need to sell an animal for a few dollars. Hiring a truck and spending all day to go to a sale barn was expensive and time consuming. Mr. Taylor would buy these animals, for a few dollars less than the market value, with the intention of reselling at a profit. He'd buy enough to make the trip to the sale barn in Paragould worthwhile. He’d often stop in his old green pickup and talk to My Daddy. He was always a looking to buy or sell something. A great deal of the livestock in those days was bought and sold in this way.

One rainy spring morning in 1948, Mr. Taylor showed up in front of our house. He said he had bought this little white cow from a feller leaving the country. “The feller needed $40.00. So, I got her at a steal. She’s worth at least $75.00,” he explained to My Daddy. We’d walked over to the truck and stood looking through the slats of the sideboards at her. “The feller I bought her from told me she fills up a large gallon milk pail twice a day. Got no reason not to believe him. Besides that, he said she's as docile as a lamb,” he continued and hopped down in the bed of the truck to show My Daddy how gentle she was. She didn't move an inch and seemed friendly as a pup. Mr. Taylor then grabbed one of her teats and squirted milk clean over the top of the cab of his truck. He was a big feller with a large stomach and when he’d laugh the whole truck shook. “She's yours for $50.00, Johnny,” he concluded. Laughing heartily, he climbed out of the truck and dropped to the ground.

My Daddy had taken on a look of interest and started talking to Mr. Taylor about that little white cow. He liked Mr. Taylor and he especially enjoyed swapping stock and trying his hand at besting a stock trader. “Mike, you know. I’ve an old sorry milk cow about twice the size of this little lady,” said My Daddy. Mr. Taylor had already given his sale pitch. He stopped and was looking My Daddy right in the eye, like most honest folks will do. “You're gonna sell this little ol’ lady and they'll just butcher her anyway. Tell you what I'll do. I'll trade with you, if you give me $15.00 boot,” offered My Daddy. Boot being Arkansas talk for what extra cash you gave or received in order to close the deal. Mr. Taylor did some powerful studying on that and after a while decided to go look at that ol’ brown cow.

Now, that old brown cow had one of them extra long udders, and she was always getting it hung up on briars and bushes and cutting herself. We had a little patch of woods, covering about 3 acres, where she grazed. Her teats, it seemed, were always cut and sore. Sometimes when the General would try to milk her, she’d kick the bucket clean out of her hand. I heard the General say to My Daddy, more than once, that whenever he got a chance, she sure wished he'd get rid of that old hateful milk cow.

Now, having milk for a family in those days was just as important as it is today. The difference being, we either took the milk out of a milk cow, or we didn't have any. Having a milk cow fit right in with the General's idea of having your living right around you. That being the case, it seemed safe for My Daddy to be doing this swap. He could use the extra money, too. Nevertheless, he needed the General's blessing as she was in charge of the milking. Lots of things like straining the milk, taking off the cream, and making butter from the cream was also in her department. Best not to do anything without her okay.

The General became aware of all the talk, and she came out to see what was going on. She always let My Daddy pretend he was in charge, if someone was around. So, she mostly listened. The General could talk to My Daddy with her eyes, and no one could hear her but him. She looked that ol’ white cow up and down. "Why she’s no bigger than a goat," she declared. She told My Daddy with her eye talk that she was in agreement with the trade, if it could be made. I was sent to drive that old brown cow up to the barn. That udder was a swinging and slapping the sharp briars as she ran with me and Ol’ Pal right behind her. I sure would be happy to see this ol’ sorry thing gone. That's how we ended up with Ol’ Goat.

Now, Ol’ Goat was one fine milk cow. The General figured she must have been part Jersey, as they were great milkers and weren't too big. She’d fill up that ol’ gallon pail twice a day. We’d all the milk, butter, and cream, we could use and then some. She was as gentle as a lamb too, just like the feller said. The General would always talk to her in a loving manner when she milked. Goat would chew her cud and seemed happy to be sharing this one great talent she possessed, that of making milk. We all took great pride in such a nice little cow. She fit right in the family and became a favorite right along with Ol’ Gray and Ol’ Pal. Big hunks of yeller butter were put on our biscuits every morning. We were surely blessed by having this precious little ol’ white cow that wasn't much bigger than a goat. Didn't eat much either. That's always a plus.

I was coming home from school when I first saw her. I wasn't sure at first that it was her. She was lying down in the six-inch high sugarcane field. My Daddy always liked to grow a couple of acres of sugarcane, as it made good livestock feed. I thought, that was strange. Ol’ Goat lying down like that, right out in the open field, with her head stretched out flat. I started to run toward her. I got that feeling something wasn’t right. When I came upon her, I noticed she was gasping for breath and her eyes were rolled back. I knew she was in big trouble. I ran for the house, yelling for the General. The General came out the front door in a rush drying her hands on her apron. She knew by the sound of my voice that something bad was wrong.

In those days, the neighbors in the community weren’t highly educated. Up to the eighth grade was available in one-room schoolhouses but few completed the curriculum. The need for craftsmen and specialists in the rural areas spawned all sorts of folks with special talents. We called these folks, gifted. There were many people who played the piano and other musical instruments without the benefit of music lessons or any kind of musical training. Seemed when there was a need, the gift appeared.

Mr. Doc Book was one of those special gifted people. He had sent away for a book on veterinary medicine. That book had all kinds of remedies for sick animals. Doc Book soon discovered he had the gift for healing. He got himself a big black bag and filled it with all kinds of needles, syringes, a stethoscope, and various other medical tools and supplies. In a short time, he became one of the most sought after people in those parts. He was rarely home. Seemed, he worked day and night. He'd have just left one farm or be going to another. He was a hard feller to find.

I knew his car. It passed daily heading out to the back farms in the county. He drove a big, old, tan-colored 1938 dodge with a big hump on the back. I’d see the dust cloud from the dirt road and see that old tan car a flying. I knew the good Doc was off to treat, vaccinate, or save an animal for one of our neighbors. My Daddy was plowing in a little cotton patch within sight of where we were. He stopped the mares; left them standing right there, and fairly ran to where we were. He approached, bent over, and commenced to examine Ol’ Goat. He seemed baffled, “What happened? Did someone shoot Ol’ Goat?” he asked. We didn’t see any blood. It was a complete mystery. We needed the good Doc Book and we needed him right now.

We had no means of transportation other than Ol’ Gray, and the Doc's house was at least five miles away. He wouldn’t be home, anyway. “Maybe we can catch him when he comes by,” suggested My Daddy. Ol’ Goat was not looking good. Her breathing was labored and her tongue was sticking out and turning blue. The General was talking to her in a low tone and trying to get her to get up and walk to the barn. My Daddy took off for the main highway to see if he could find the good Doc Book.

The word somehow reached Doc Book that we were in desperate need of his skills. I saw the dust before I saw the car. He came to an abrupt halt in our front yard right out there under the sweet gum tree. The dust started settling around us. Doc Book jumped out, grabbed his bag, and headed toward the porch where we all stood waiting. He was about 5 feet 9 inches tall and of normal build. He was dressed in khaki pants with a long sleeved khaki shirt. He wore a dark brown, narrow brim, Stetson hat that he had pushed back slightly. That manner of dress separated him from the overall-wearing farmers around there. He looked quite professional as a matter of a fact. I guessed him to be a man of about fifty. He had deep wrinkles in his dark brown face that gave him the look of a man with character. He carried himself in a way that told you he’d come here on some very urgent business. I’d seen him before when he had come to our farm to vaccinate the pigs for cholera. He brought a very important service to our community and had everyone's respect. I never once, in all my years of growing up, heard anyone question his credentials. We had absolute confidence in the good Doc Book.

He got right to work on Ol’ Goat. “I see you got some sugar cane growing here, Johnny. Have you put any nitrogen on it?” he asked. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I just side dressed it last week with a heavy dose,” answered My Daddy. The Doc shook his head, as if that explained it. “The nitrogen is highly concentrated in rapidly growing sugarcane,” he explained, as we hurriedly walked to where she lay. “She has nitrate poison. The nitrogen has taken up all the oxygen in her blood and she is suffocating. We need to get her to the barn and on her feet. If we can keep her alive through the night, she might live,” he said

We got an old picksack and rolled her onto it. Ol’ Gray dragged her to the barn. The Doc and My Daddy got her in the stall. “We got to get her on her feet,” the Doc said again. They put the picksack under her little belly, brought the ends together, and Doc Book then hooked it to a rope and pulley and hoisted her to her feet. She hung almost lifeless there, looking so very pitiful, as we all stood about. I was afraid that was going to be the end of the butter on my biscuits for a while. There’s not much we can do now but wait,” the Doc said. He rolled him up a cigarette and hunkered down on his haunches in one corner. “I'll stay with her tonight,” he announced. When I went to bed Doc Book and My Daddy were still in the barn. I could hear them talking in a low tone.

Ol’ Goat survived, but she was never the same after that nitrate poisoning. It had taken something out of her. The General was afraid her milk might be poisoned and didn’t want us to use it. My Daddy decided he'd have to sell her, as we’d need the money to buy another milk cow. It pained us all for we knew that meant she'd be slaughtered. I helped My Daddy drive her to the truck he hired to take her to the sale-barn. She went willingly and gently like the good Ol’ Goat she was. I still remember she had a little limp in her back right leg, as we drove her up the little ramp and into the truck. Being a farmer is a hard business. Better stick to loving ol’ dogs. At least no one wants to eat them. Except, maybe that time, when my Uncle Floyd ate that one's leg back during the Civil War.

Like all things, the Good Doc Book passed from my life. I remember him with a great deal of affection. Last time I saw him, he had stopped by the Perry Store to give Mrs. Perry a penicillin shot. I showed a little surprise that he had moved up to human doctoring. With that, the good Mrs. Perry informed me that Doc Book could give a penicillin shot as good as any doctor, and his rates were quite reasonable. Besides that, it was a long ways to go to town just to be treated for the flu. Now, you tell me, who can argue with good common sense like that?