Today we bought a goat to replace my mother-in-law’s (MIL) beloved goat, Flora, who died of old age a few months ago. MIL was ready to have a new goat in the fenced-in yard and shed that has hand-painted windows and big letters that say: Flora.

Time for a new goat. Maybe two.

Five of us went to a ranch where they sell goats. A thin older woman with short hair and bright orange framed sun glasses wearing a Treasure Island Las Vegas T-shirt showed us our new friend: a five-month-old black goat with white stripes on her ears. She doesn’t have horns.

Our new goat was all alone in a small pen: an effort to get her used to being separated from the other goats. We put a green collar on her and a leash. The woman told us to feed her hay, alfalfa, fruit, dried leaves. "Just about anything. She’s your new garbage dump," she said in the kindest possible way.

She also showed us the brown baby goat that will be MIL’s in October. "She’s too young to take home now because she’s being bottle fed," the goat seller told us. "And I didn’t think you wanted to bottle feed three times a day." MIL agreed

MIL gave the goat-seller a check for forty dollars and she wished us well. "Go home, put her in the back yard and let her lounge around with the family. It’ll be a good way for her to get to know all of you."

With some effort, Teen Spirit carried the squirmy new goat into MIL’s pick up and rode home with the goat on his lap. Apparently, the goat was calm as could be in Teen Spirit’s arms (see No Words_Daily Pix) during the ten minute drive.

Once home, we let the goat run loose in the backyard She didn’t seem  very uncomfortable with the idea and looked kind of sad. Then she bolted and ran out of the backyard past the swimming pool over by the driveway. "Don’t let her run into the road," Hepcat screamed. "Or fall into the swimming pool," I added.

Everyone ran after her; she was still wearing a leash. It was comic scene; something out of a silent movie. Teen Spirit finally grabbed her leash and carried her to her spacious pen.

"Why don’t you feed her some roses. Goats love roses," MIL told OSFO, who found one of MIL’s big red rose and offered it to the goat. No go. Apparently, the goat hasn’t developed a taste for roses yet. She did take a few nibbles of the dried grass and hay that are in her pen.

Then she went into her pen and whined a bit. Watching her, we tried to come up with a name. I was thinking French authors like Colette or Simone. OSFO liked Luna. Teen Spirit said, "How about black Maria?" We can call her Mariah for short." It took a minute for him to remember what a black Maria was. "It’s a van that carries prisoners or something," he said finally. "I looked it up on Wikipedia once."

MIL liked the name. "Isn’t there a song called, "They Call the Wind Mariah. It’s from Paint Your Wagon I think,"

So the goat’s got a name. Mariah. As I write this I hear her whining like a baby off in the distance; it’s her first night in a new pen. She’s never been away from home before.

Don’t worry, Mariah. You’re going to like your new home a lot. MIL will take good very care of you here.