Free The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers: An Unconventional Memoir by Josh Kilmer-Purcell Page A

across the subway car floor. Last call, my ass.
    And this time, I’d started a goat farm, practically overnight. This could potentially be my longest hangover to date.
    Being superstitious, I walked over to close the curtains on the far side of the bed. My grandmother used to warn me that sleeping in the light of the moon would bring on madness. And since I might have lost my marbles, I couldn’t afford Brent going insane as well.

    Brent was already out of bed when I woke up. A quick check of the kitchen showed that he wasn’t making me breakfast in bed either. Not really a surprise. I threw on my coat and pulled on my muddy boots and headed outside. Either he was still mad at me and had gone for a walk, or he’d forgiven me and, well, probably not.
    Even though it was the beginning of June, the morning air was still chill enough to see my breath. The yard had blossomed in the past few days with millions of dandelions. While I supposed most homeowners would’ve been perturbed with their omnipresence, to me they were as beautiful as any wildflower. I’d been pleasantly surprised by the waves of different perennials and wildflowers that had been springing up in the backyard’s formal flower garden. The Beekman grew more beautiful each passing week.
    I slipped quietly through the barn’s side door. The only sound from inside was the rhythmic munching of goats chewing. John must have just finished his morning chores, the last of which was filling the feeders with hay. I’d asked him just after he arrived why the goats didn’t go graze in the fields like the storybook pictures of my youth, and he’d answered that they were still a little too timid. It would take a month or so for the skittish herd to grow adventuresome enough to go exploring.
    “Brent?”
    I heard a whisper from the far end of the barn.
    “Over here. Shhh.”
    My eyes adjusted to the speckled darkness. Bits of hay chaff floated through the air, catching what little light streamed in from the dusty windows.
    “What’s going on?” I asked, approaching him slowly. He was peering intently over the edge of one of the pens.
    “Shh. Come look.”
    “What? I don’t see anything.”
    “Look at that goat in the corner.”
    On the far side of the pen, against the wall, a brown-and-white goat was contentedly munching on a mouthful of hay. She was a Nubian goat, I believe. Farmer John had explained the different breeds to me on their first day here. Her ears were long and floppy, and her nose broader and more pronounced than the Alpines and Saanens.
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    “Just watch a second.”
    The goat held our eye contact for a few seconds longer, then turned to walk back to the feeder for more hay.
    “Holy God!” I said. “What the hell is that?”
    An immense bubble, probably about ten inches in diameter, was protruding from her hindquarters, just beneath her tail. She seemed completely unaware of it as she nudged her fellow goats aside to reach the feeder.
    “It’s the birth sac, I would assume,” Brent said.
    “That thing? It’s huge! Does she even know what’s happening?”
    Just then she raised her head and let out a long, anguished bleat. The bubble pulsed a little and grew larger.
    “I’m pretty sure she knows something’s up,” Brent said.
    “Shouldn’t we go get John?”
    “I already went and knocked on his door, but he must be out,” Brent said. “There’s no truck in the driveway.”
    “Should we call nine-one-one? Is she breathing correctly?” I was remembering the many stories of our pregnant New York City friends who underwent months of Lamaze training and practiced simulated childbirth in family-size hospital hot tubs. None of them ever described a giant bubble being blown out of their hoo-has.
    Brent rolled his eyes. The mother goat raised her head and bleated again, retreating as she did, back toward the corner of the pen.
    “It sounds like she’s in pain,” I said. The translucent bubble bounced