The Babyhood of Wild Beasts/Chapter 14

by Georgia McNally

CHAPTER XIV

baby rocky mountain goats^[1]

I THINK the Rocky Mountain goat is one of the most interesting animals on the North American Continent. In appearance he is extraordinary; in colour pure white; in mind a philosopher, and in habit an acrobat.

One, and sometimes two, baby goats are born at a time. At a very tender age he follows his mother up beyond the timberline into the rocky heights of the mountains, and in a short time he learns to leap from crag to crag over ravines and gullies with the ease of a chamois. This youngster soon acquires a fleetness of foot, a steadiness of purpose and a gift of reasoning that mark him the general of the hoof animals. When pursued by his enemies he finds a line of retreat where nothing can follow except an eagle or an aëroplane. He is the best rock climber of the hoofed fellows, and, excepting the musk-ox, is the only ungulate (hoofed animal) not panic-stricken by dogs.

Deer, sheep and elk sometimes jump to their deaths when attacked, but not so with Mr. Mountain Goat. He plans his campaign like the general he is, and woe unto the dogs that fall victims to his cyclonic charges and the vicious stabs from his razor-like horns. His sharp hoofs soon reduce an enemy to pulp and he is left victorious, the monarch of all he surveys.

The dangers mountain goats face are many. The mother goats are courageous protectors and devoted to their little ones. They guard them against the onslaughts of prowling wolves, pumas, bears and man.

The mountain goat must be ever on the alert. Freshets, avalanches and snow-slides are a few of the dangers he has to guard against. The mountain goat is an adult at two years. He is very impressive now in appearance, and has marked characteristics. His high shoulders and low hindquarters, stocky legs, thick-set body and shaggy head carried low are bison-like in outline. But his white colour mark him to be of a widely different species. His features consist of small, short horns, long, comical face, and a black patch of musty, oily skin, the size of a half dollar, back of each horn.

I want to tell you my personal experience with baby mountain goats that began when I was a little kiddie four years old. At that time we lived on the outpost of civilisation in the heart of the Sierra Nevadas. There were no children there and except for my own family I was without human companionship. It was the most natural thing in the world that I should turn to the wild life for a playmate. The antics of the wild goats filled me with wonder and delight, and secretly I resolved to get acquainted with them. It didn't take me long to discover the broad shelf of rock, half-way down the mountainside, where the herd camped at night. One cold morning I made them a call and stampeded them. Their alarm at my presence didn't discourage me in the least, so the next morning I called again. They soon grew to know me and to realise there wasn't much to fear from a toddling youngster four years old, so in a short time we became great friends.

It was their custom to climb the mountain at sunrise in search of food. The tiny baby goats were left unprotected while their mothers sought the heights for the precious herbage that was so scarce during the early spring. I acted as nurse during their absence.

I would gather the goats in my chubby arms and trudge back to the cabin with them, caring for them for several hours until I heard the bleats of the returning mothers. Then I would hasten back with the babies and give them over to their mothers' care. The number of babies

Permission of New York Zoological Society

Mountain Goats can climb anything, from a dizzy mountain crag to the roof of a building.

Permission of New York Zoological Society

Anyone who butted in to get the little goat would, no doubt, be butted out in a hurry. The mother in the picture hasn't lost her goat and evidently doesn't intend to.

increased so rapidly that my entire mornings were spent carrying little goats from the shelf of rock to the cabin and back again. Among the new ones was a dear little beauty of superior intelligence and a sweet, affectionate disposition. I named her Bonnie Bell and chose her for my own pet. She became so attached to me she would follow me home of her own accord, and loved me as devotedly as a puppy. She was white as snow, her hair was long and silky, and her eyes a soft hazel and very expressive. She had cunning little hoofs, and looked quite a bit like a lamb. I gave her a blue ribbon collar and fed her condensed milk from a spoon. If we ran short of milk, she sucked my finger for a substitute.

At this time the wolves became troublesome. Their howls made the night hideous and the days lost their charm with those sly marauders skulking through the brush. The mother goats became worried about leaving the babies to go for the herbage that grew on the peaks, but hunger forced them. For several mornings all was well with the little ones. I was on the spot as soon as the sun was over the hills. I gathered the little goats up and one by one I carried them to the cabin. One morning I overslept. The sun was high in the heavens when I arose. I hurriedly dressed and made my way to the goat camp. A tragedy met me. The villainous wolves had been there and wantonly killed my baby goats. Bonnie Bell's little body lay before me. The blue ribbon helped me to identify her. Only two little goats were left alive. I took them home with me and cried my heart out in my mother's arms.

That all happened many years ago, but my love for Bonnie Bell lives on in my heart of hearts. Whenever I see mountain goats the vision of her fleecy white form and soft hazel eyes shining out from the little white face comes up before me, and in fancy I hear the silvery beat of her little hoofs as she hurries down the trail on her wabbly legs to meet me.

1. When I was four years old we lived in an old cabin in a long abandoned mining camp in the Sierra Nevadas of Northern California. Prior to our moving into it, the old cabin had been for years a shelter for wild animals. One stormy night, a few days after we took possession, the latch string was violently jerked, and a huge Rocky Mountain Goat entered with a dignified air of ownership. He was stupefied when he discovered that his old shelter was occupied, and as soon as he could collect his wits he fled madly up the mountainside. He was frightened and so was I; but we had aroused each other's curiosity, and the next day I began trailing the goats. The incidents related are of my experiences with them.