by Lea Tassie
***
The grasshoppers seemed to multiply in the hot weather, too, and George sometimes ate so many he didn't want his supper. One afternoon he trotted into the kitchen with the usual spindly legs sticking out of his mouth.
"George, I don't think that's a grasshopper. The legs are black, not green."
He ignored me and crunched the insect. At once he spat it out and backed away, hissing. I picked it up in a paper towel, inspected it and put it in the garbage. "That was a cricket. Didn't it taste good?"
No answer. George, eyes crossed, was busy sticking his tongue out of his mouth as though trying to spit the taste off it. I followed him to the bathroom where he drank, then shook his head, spraying drops everywhere. Struggling between laughter and empathy, I offered him a cat candy. He glared at me. A couple of hours later he was still trying to get rid of his tongue.
Ben said, "I bet he's learned the difference between crickets and grasshoppers." George headed for his bathroom water dish again and Ben grinned. "We'll have to hire a taster for His Majesty. If the budget can stand it."
George was fine by the following day, when Cal came over for coffee. "I'm going to Vancouver Island tomorrow," he said. "Got some entries for the fall fair at Saanichton."
I assumed he was taking some of his Angora goats. I'd seen them over the fence a few times and they were like walking balls of wool with four little feet sticking out the bottom and two horns sticking out the top. Occasionally a yellow eye glared at me from behind a disheveled fringe.
"Want us to look after your place?" Ben asked.
"If you wouldn't mind. I'll only be gone three days."
We followed Cal to his place to learn what needed to be done. Cal had never invited us to his house, apparently preferring the coffee and cookies at ours, and I was curious to see how he lived.
His house was ancient, the logs weathered to silver and topped by the mossy shake roof I'd seen over the blackberry barrier. Ben and Cal both had to duck to enter the front door. Inside was a large room, with a couple of doors at the far end leading to bedroom and bathroom.
"My folks built this place when they settled here," he said. "Must be eighty-five years old. Kinda dark because the windows are so small, but it suits me."
When my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw a large loom in the center of the room along with a spinning wheel and untidy piles of wool. On the wall were hangings of woven wool, in beautiful designs and clear, pure colors. "Who did those?"
Cal looked a little embarrassed. "I do them. In my spare time. That's what I'm taking to the fair."
"They're gorgeous," I said. "I thought you were taking some of the goats."
"I raise the goats for wool, not to show."
"Must take a lot of work to get the wool to where you can use it," Ben said. "How often do you shear them?"
"Twice a year. Then I wash the wool and card it and spin it and dye it. Kinda fun once you figure out how."
I was liking Cal better all the time. His macho Mister Fix-It exterior was only a protective mask for his artistic interior. Now I knew why he and Sylvia lived apart. He didn't want to leave his goats or his weaving and I couldn't imagine any woman wanting to live in the untidy squalor of his old log house.
By the time we'd been introduced to the goats and Daisy, the multi-colored cat, and given our instructions, I realized I'd seen his work at an artisan's gallery in Mora Bay. I was even more impressed. Next day Cal caught the early ferry and Ben and I took over as goat-keepers.
The job wasn't as hard as I'd feared. The Angoras cropped grass and blackberry vines and all we had to do was feed them in stalls once a day and give them drinking water. We took Nicky with us and the sight of one tiny ball of white fluff trying to herd a dozen big ones had us laughing so hard our chores took twice as long.
"I told you he'd be okay," Ben said. "Herding goats can't be much different than herding reindeer, which is what his ancestors did."
Nicky liked his job so much we had a hard time getting him home each day, though the goats chased him as much as he did them. The Angoras seemed to like our company, too, and followed us to the gate that separated their range from the house yard every time we left.
"Do you suppose they'd follow us home?" Ben asked.
"Don't even say it! How would we ever get them back in their pen? Nicky's not big enough yet to be much help. You're not thinking of raising goats, too, are you?"
He shook his head. "I've got enough to do raising cats and chickens and a garden for the deer."
"I still think you should build a higher fence."
"If it turns out Nicky can't control the deer, I guess I'll have to." Ben patted my arm. "I knew when we moved here that this first year might end up being a learning experiment. I'm not expecting to make any money now, just learn what we have to do to make the garden a success. Next year will prove whether or not I can do it."
When Cal returned, he came over to thank us with a piece of material he'd woven. "Be about the right amount for a skirt," he said. He also admitted shyly that he'd won first prize at the fair for one of his wall hangings.
"I'd like to see it," I said.
"Can't. I sold it." He added proudly, "Got $1,500 for it, too."
Ben's eyes widened. "Maybe there's something to this Angora goat business."
I had a chilling vision of myself washing, carding, spinning and dyeing endless piles of mohair. "I have enough to do combing the tangles out of Nicky's fur. And you need to teach him to herd deer. We don't have time for goats."
Ben's eyes twinkled. "Just checking."
