Mabel Hawkins squinted at the horizon, her leathery hands shading her eyes from the harsh morning sun. Another scorcher, she thought, clicking her tongue in disapproval. The old farmer’s gaze swept across her modest plot of land—five acres of scrubby grass, dotted with gnarled oak trees and weathered outbuildings. Her pride and joy stood in the nearest paddock: a small herd of goats, their coats gleaming in the early light.
“Gertrude!” Mabel called, her voice cracking slightly. “Where you at, you ornery beast?”
A distant bleat answered her, and Mabel’s wrinkled face creased into a smile. There, emerging from behind the rickety barn, came her prized Nubian goat. Gertrude’s long, floppy ears swayed as she ambled towards her mistress, stopping now and then to nibble at a tuft of grass.
“There’s my girl,” Mabel cooed, reaching out to scratch behind Gertrude’s ears. The goat leaned into her touch, eyes half-closed in contentment. “Ready for your morning milkin’?”
Gertrude gave a soft “maa” in response, following Mabel towards the milking shed. The old farmer’s joints creaked as she settled onto her three-legged stool, positioning the pail beneath Gertrude’s udders. With practiced ease, Mabel began to milk, her gnarled fingers working in a steady rhythm.
“You know, Gertie,” Mabel mused, her voice barely audible above the ping of milk hitting the metal pail, “I reckon you’re the only one who really understands me anymore. Folks in town, they think old Mabel’s gone round the bend. But you and me, we got each other, don’t we?”
Gertrude chewed her cud placidly, seemingly uninterested in her owner’s musings. Mabel chuckled, patting the goat’s flank. “That’s right, you just keep on eatin’. Lord knows you’re the best listener I got these days.”
As Mabel finished up the milking, a distant rumble caught her attention. She cocked her head, listening intently. The sound grew louder, resolving into the distinctive putt-putt of an engine. Mabel’s brow furrowed. “Now who in tarnation could that be?”
She shooed Gertrude out of the shed and made her way to the front of the property, curiosity piqued. As she reached the weathered fence line, an unfamiliar vehicle came into view—some sort of boxy, white contraption that looked like it belonged in the city, not on these dusty country roads.
The vehicle slowed to a stop, and a young man in a crisp blue uniform hopped out. He approached Mabel with a hesitant smile, clutching a handful of envelopes.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of an accent Mabel couldn’t quite place. “I’m Zack Peterson, your new mail carrier. I’ve got some letters for you.”
Mabel eyed him suspiciously, taking in his neatly pressed shirt and polished shoes. “New mail carrier, eh? What happened to old Jim?”
Zack’s smile faltered slightly. “Oh, um, I believe he retired last month. I’m taking over his route.”
“Hmph,” Mabel grunted, reluctantly holding out her hand for the mail. “Well, I suppose you’d better come in and have some lemonade. Can’t have you keelin’ over from heatstroke on my property.”
Before Zack could protest, Mabel was already shuffling towards the house, leaving him little choice but to follow. He trailed after her, taking in the overgrown yard and peeling paint on the farmhouse. As they reached the porch, a clatter of hooves made him turn.
There, not three feet away, stood the largest goat Zack had ever seen. Its golden-brown coat gleamed in the sun, and its dark eyes seemed to bore right through him. Zack froze, unsure whether to back away or stand his ground.
Mabel’s cackling laughter broke the tension. “That there’s Gertrude,” she said, slapping her knee in amusement. “Don’t you worry none, she won’t bite. Unless you got something tasty in them pockets of yours.”
Zack laughed nervously, edging around Gertrude to follow Mabel into the house. The interior was cool and dim after the bright sunlight outside. Mismatched furniture crowded the small living room, and every available surface seemed to be covered in knick-knacks and old photographs.
“Have a seat,” Mabel instructed, gesturing to a sagging armchair. “I’ll fetch that lemonade.”
As the old woman bustled off to the kitchen, Zack perched gingerly on the edge of the chair. His eyes roamed the room, taking in the eclectic decor. A framed newspaper clipping caught his attention, and he leaned in to read the faded print.
“LOCAL FARMER WINS BLUE RIBBON AT STATE FAIR,” the headline proclaimed. Beneath it was a photo of a much younger Mabel, beaming proudly next to a familiar-looking goat.
“That was Gertrude’s mama,” Mabel’s voice startled Zack. She set a glass of lemonade on the side table, her rheumy eyes following his gaze to the article. “Beatrice was her name. Best milker in the county, she was.”
Zack took a sip of lemonade, pleasantly surprised by its tart sweetness. “You’ve been raising goats for a long time, then?”
Mabel lowered herself into a rocking chair with a soft grunt. “All my life, young man. This farm’s been in the Hawkins family for nigh on a hundred years. My daddy raised goats, and his daddy before him.”
“That’s impressive,” Zack said, genuinely interested. “I don’t know much about farming myself. I grew up in the city, actually.”
Mabel’s eyebrows shot up. “City boy, eh? What in blazes are you doin’ out here in the sticks?”
Zack chuckled, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “Needed a change of pace, I guess. Got tired of the rat race, you know? Thought I’d try my hand at something different.”
“Well, deliver in’ mail ‘round these parts is sure different from what you’re used to,” Mabel said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Hope you’re ready for dirt roads and ornery farm dogs.”
As if on cue, a series of sharp barks erupted from outside. Mabel rolled her eyes. “Speaking of ornery dogs, sounds like old Duke’s got his dander up about somethin’.”
She heaved herself out of the chair and hobbled to the window, peering out into the yard. Her exasperated sigh told Zack all he needed to know.
“That dang goat,” Mabel muttered. “Gertie’s got into the vegetable patch again. ‘Scuse me, young man, I’ve got to go wrangle that troublemaker.”
Zack jumped to his feet. “Can I help? I mean, I don’t know much about goats, but maybe an extra pair of hands would be useful?”
Mabel regarded him skeptically for a moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t come cryin’ to me if you get your fancy uniform all mussed up.”
They made their way outside, where the cacophony of barking and bleating had intensified. Gertrude stood in the middle of what had once been a neat row of tomato plants, munching contentedly on the green foliage. Duke, a grizzled old sheepdog, circled the garden, barking furiously but unwilling to enter the vegetable patch himself.
“Gertrude!” Mabel’s voice cracked like a whip. “You get your woolly behind out of there this instant!”
The goat looked up, regarding her mistress with what Zack could have sworn was a mischievous glint in her eye. Then, quick as a flash, Gertrude darted past them, making a beeline for the open gate.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mabel groaned. “Quick, boy! Head her off at the pass!”
Zack didn’t need to be told twice. He sprinted towards the gate, arms outstretched to block Gertrude’s escape. The goat, however, had other ideas. At the last second, she veered sharply to the left, leaving Zack grasping at thin air. He stumbled, lost his footing, and found himself face-down in the dust.
Mabel’s laughter rang out across the yard. “Well, I’ll be,” she wheezed, clutching her sides. “I ain’t seen anything that funny since Cousin Eustace got his britches caught in the thresher!”
Zack pushed himself up, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. His once-pristine uniform was now streaked with dust and grass stains. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” he said ruefully, but he couldn’t help chuckling at the absurdity of the situation.
Gertrude, meanwhile, had trotted to a shady spot beneath an old oak tree. She flopped down, chewing lazily on a mouthful of purloined tomato leaves.
Mabel’s laughter subsided into a wheezy chuckle. “Oh, lordy. I haven’t laughed like that in years.” She fixed Zack with an appraising look. “You know what, city boy? You’re alright. A mite clumsy, but you’ve got spunk.”
Zack brushed himself off as best he could, grinning despite his embarrassment. “Thanks, I think. Sorry I couldn’t catch her for you.”
Mabel waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, don’t you worry about it. Gertie there’s got a mind of her own. Been that way since she was a kid.” She paused, then added with a wink, “That’s a goat joke, son.”
Zack laughed, surprised to find himself genuinely enjoying the old woman’s company. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share any tips on goat-wrangling? I have a feeling this won’t be the last time I encounter an escapee on my route.”
Mabel’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Well now, that’s a mighty tall order. Goat-whisperin’ ain’t something you can learn in a day, you know. But…” she trailed off, considering. “I suppose I could show you a thing or two, if you’re willin’ to learn.”
And so began an unlikely friendship between the eccentric goat farmer and the city-slicker mailman. Over the weeks that followed, Zack found himself lingering at Mabel’s farm long after he’d delivered the mail, soaking up her stories and learning the finer points of animal husbandry.
Mabel, for her part, found herself looking forward to Zack’s daily visits. It had been years since anyone had shown genuine interest in her life and her goats. She’d forgotten how nice it was to have someone to talk to—someone who didn’t write her off as a crazy old coot.
One sweltering afternoon in late August, Zack arrived at the farm to find Mabel in a state of agitation. She was pacing the front porch, wringing her gnarled hands.
“What’s wrong?” Zack asked, concern etched on his face. “Is everything okay?”
Mabel shook her head, her voice trembling slightly. “It’s Gertie. She’s due to kid any day now, but something ain’t right. She’s not eatin’, and she keeps makin’ these awful noises.”
Zack’s brow furrowed. He’d learned enough about goats over the past few weeks to know that this was serious. “Have you called the vet?”
“I tried,” Mabel said, frustration evident in her tone. “But Dr. Johnson’s out on another call. Won’t be able to get here for hours yet.” She looked up at Zack, fear evident in her rheumy eyes. “I don’t know if Gertie has that long.”
Zack took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay, let’s not panic. Where is she now?”
“In the barn,” Mabel replied, already heading in that direction. “I’ve got her set up in one of the kidding pens.”
They hurried to the barn, the familiar scent of hay and animals enveloping them as they entered. In the far corner, Gertrude lay on her side, her sides heaving with labored breaths. Soft, pained bleats escaped her mouth.
Mabel knelt beside her prized goat, stroking her head gently. “It’s okay, girl,” she murmured. “We’re gonna help you through this.”
Zack stood back, feeling helpless. “What can I do?”
Mabel looked up at him, determination replacing the fear in her eyes. “We’re gonna have to help her deliver. I need you to run to the house and grab my kidding kit. It’s in the kitchen, under the sink.”
Zack nodded, sprinting back to the farmhouse. He found the kit where Mabel had said and rushed back to the barn. By the time he returned, Gertrude’s bleats had grown more insistent.
“I think it’s time,” Mabel said, her voice steady despite the tension in her frame. “You ever helped birth a goat before, city boy?”
Zack shook his head, a mixture of excitement and trepidation coursing through him. “Can’t say that I have.”
Mabel grinned, a fierce light in her eyes. “Well, you’re about to get one heck of an education. Now, wash up and put on these gloves. We’ve got work to do.”
The next hour was a blur of activity. Zack found himself following Mabel’s terse instructions, fetching clean towels, holding Gertrude steady, and trying not to pass out at the sight of the emerging kid.
Finally, with one last push from Gertrude and a gentle tug from Mabel, a tiny, wet bundle slid into the world. Mabel quickly cleared the kid’s airways, rubbing it vigorously with a towel.
“Come on, little one,” she urged. “Give us a cry.”
For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. Then, suddenly, the kid let out a high-pitched bleat. Mabel’s face split into a wide grin. “That’s it! Good job, Gertie girl!”
Zack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Is it… is it a boy or a girl?”
Mabel chuckled, gently lifting the kid’s back leg. “It’s a little doeling. A girl,” she added, seeing Zack’s confused expression.
As they watched, Gertrude twisted around to nuzzle her newborn kid. The little goat wobbled on unsteady legs, already seeking out her mother’s milk.
Mabel sat back on her heels, exhaustion and joy warring on her weathered face. “Well, I’ll be danged. We did it.”
Zack nodded, feeling a surge of pride. “We sure did. Though I think you did most of the work.”
Mabel waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Couldn’t have done it without you, son.” She paused, studying him with a thoughtful expression. “You know, you’ve got a real knack for this. Ever thought about takin’ up farming yourself?”
Zack blinked, surprised by the suggestion. “Me? A farmer? I don’t know, Mabel. I’m just a city boy, remember?”
“Pshaw,” Mabel scoffed. “You’ve learned more in these past few weeks than some folks do in years. And let me tell you something—this land, it gets in your blood. Once you’ve felt the satisfaction of bringing new life into the world, of nurturing something and watching it grow… well, it’s hard to go back to pushing papers in some stuffy office.”
Zack fell silent, mulling over her words. He thought about the monotony of his old life in the city, the endless cycle of alarm clocks and rush-hour traffic. Then he looked at the scene before him—the contented mother goat, the wobbling newborn, the weathered barn that had seen generations of animals come and go.
“You might be right,” he said slowly. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’m starting to understand the appeal.”
Mabel’s eyes twinkled. “Well now, that’s good to hear. ‘Cause I’ve been thinking… this old farm’s getting to be a bit much for me to manage on my own. I could use a pair of young hands around here. Someone to help out, maybe learn the ropes.”
Zack’s eyes widened as he realized what she was suggesting. “Are you offering me a job?”
“More than that,” Mabel said, her voice gruff with emotion. “I’m offering you a future. This farm’s been in my family for generations, but I never had any kids of my own to pass it on to. It’d be a crying shame to see it sold off to some developer who’d turn it into a strip mall.”
She fixed Zack with a steady gaze. “What do you say, city boy? You want to try your hand at being a real goat whisperer?”
Zack looked around the barn, taking in the sweet smell of hay, the soft bleating of the goats, the warm afternoon light filtering through the dusty windows. He thought about the past few weeks—the laughter, the hard work, the sense of purpose he’d found here.
Slowly, a smile spread across his face. “You know what, Mabel? I think I’d like that very much.”
Mabel’s wrinkled face creased into a broad grin. “Well, alright then! Welcome to the family, son.” She gestured to the newborn kid, who had finally found her footing and was exploring the pen on wobbly legs. “Now, what do you say we give this little lady a name?”
Zack watched the kid prance around, full of life and curiosity. “How about… Hope?” he suggested. “Seems fitting, don’t you think?”
Mabel nodded, her eyes suspiciously moist. “Hope,” she repeated softly. “I like that. A new beginning for all of us.”
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the barnyard, Zack and Mabel sat on the porch, sipping lemonade and watching Gertrude and her kid graze in the nearby paddock. The air was filled with the gentle sounds of evening—crickets chirping, leaves rustling in the breeze, the occasional bleat from the goat pen.
Zack felt a deep sense of contentment settle over him. He thought about the twists and turns that had led him here, to this moment. How a simple desire for change had brought him to this small farm, to this eccentric old woman who had become like family.
“You know, Mabel,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence, “when I took this mail route, I never imagined it would lead to… well, all this.”
Mabel chuckled, the sound warm and rich in the twilight. “Life’s funny that way, ain’t it? You never know where the road’s gonna take you.” She fixed him with a knowing look. “But I reckon you’ve found your path now, haven’t you?”
Zack nodded, his gaze drifting back to the paddock where Hope frolicked around her mother’s legs. “I think I have,” he said softly. “And I can’t wait to see where it leads.”
As night fell over the farm, bringing with it a blanket of stars and the promise of a new day to come, Zack knew he was exactly where he was meant to be. He had found his calling, his purpose—and it had all started with a stubborn goat and a crusty old farmer who saw something in him that he hadn’t even seen in himself.
The city boy had become a goat whisperer, and in doing so, he had found his home.