By any measure of reason, I should have left her alone to die, but I just couldn’t do it. Born in downpour, the little goat didn’t get as much notice as her cousins had when they arrived a week prior. Petunia was an experienced mother, so I gave her two doelings a quick check and went back in the house.

A day later, the twins were weak and having trouble nursing. Although we have explained to her numerous times that she is a dairy goat, Petunia starts a rodeo anytime someone comes after her with a jar in hand. Sophia and Olivia gamely held Petunia’s legs as I milked her enough to make bottles for the baby goats.

By the third day, one kid had died and the other was failing, too weak to take much even by bottle. She would nurse on her mother briefly and then, overcome by exhaustion, collapse in a heap.

Not willing to give up so easily, I held the goat on my lap, pried her jaw open and put little dabs of yogurt on her tongue. The texture was great, it stayed in one place long enough for the goat’s muscles to coordinate a swallow. We mixed vitamins and minerals into her yogurt and prayed that the goat would pull through.

The little goat’s legs became weaker, and she lost the ability to cry out. Unless I woke her up, she did not eat. Lifting her head seemed to wear her out.

She was always “the goat,” to me because naming an animal is a commitment to its future. The pigs are Pork Chop or Bacon, the calves might be T-Bone or Cheeseburger. The goats—so far—have been for milking, so they’ve had more fanciful names like Jelly Bean and Coconut. I couldn’t commit to naming this kid because I wasn’t sure this kid was committed to living. I prepared myself to let go by trying not to care. If she lived, she’d be just another goat.

I wondered, as I often do, what lessons I was teaching my kids. Compassion is an important lesson, to be sure, but it can easily be confused with futility. Perhaps there was a better use of my time and resources.

On the fifth day, I imagined that the goat was a bit stronger, and she rewarded me by finding her voice and crying out in a frail voice. My elation didn’t last long. The next morning, the nameless goat was doing a version of a commando crawl to propel herself. She had lost the ability to stand.

Petunia was attentive if we took the baby over, but otherwise oblivious to her child’s plight. She lounged with the other goats and tried to steal little Jelly Bean away from her mother.

In desperation, I fashioned a feeding tube and poured some of Petunia’s milk directly into the goat kid’s stomach. For the first time, she cried loudly. When I took her back to the goat pen, the little one sank into the hay and fell asleep.

The next day, she straightened her back legs. Soon, she was standing on shaky legs. We celebrated with another shot of minerals.

Then one night I knelt outside with my daughters, held the goat under the starry sky and coaxed a little more yogurt down her throat. In that cold, damp night, I forgot about economics and common sense. That night, we named the goat Hope.

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