Pets n Story

I never planned to stop at that roadside auction.
I was just driving home from Mom’s old place—clearing out the last box of her sweaters, trying not to cry into the steering wheel—when I saw the sign: “FARM SALE – TODAY ONLY.” Something in me hit the brakes.

The place smelled like dust and diesel and old hay. I wasn’t looking to buy anything. But then I saw them—three tiny goats, huddled in a corner pen. One brown, one white, and one mottled like some half-drawn sketch. Shivering. Way too young to be separated from their mother.

The guy running the pen told me they were “unsold leftovers.” Meant for feed.

That word—leftovers—hit like a slap.

You see, the night before my mother passed, she’d looked at me through her oxygen mask and whispered something I couldn’t make sense of at the time:
“Don’t leave the soft things behind.”

I thought she meant memories. Or maybe her dog.
But standing in front of those three baby goats, barely more than a bundle of bones and trembling fur, I heard her voice like thunder in my head.

So I did something wild.
I scooped them up—literally, all three—and said, “I’ll take them.” I had no plan. No farm. No idea how to raise goats. Just a backseat full of blankets and a trunk full of grief.

And as they nuzzled into my arms, bleating like they already knew me, I realized what she meant.

“Don’t leave the soft things behind.”
She wasn’t talking about things. She meant moments like this. Lives like these.

I didn’t have a farm. But I had a chance.

So I brought them home.

My apartment wasn’t exactly goat-friendly. It was small, with hardwood floors and zero outdoor space. The landlord would’ve killed me if he found out, but I figured it was temporary. A week, tops. I could figure something out by then.

I named them after my favorite coffee drinks—Espresso (the brown one), Latte (the white one), and Cappuccino (the mottled one). They weren’t even names; they were placeholders until I could find a proper home for them. But naming them felt right, like giving them a little dignity back.

The first night was chaos. They climbed on everything: the couch, the kitchen counter, my bed. At one point, Espresso got stuck between the fridge and the wall, his little legs kicking frantically. I laughed so hard I cried, which is probably why I didn’t notice how healing it felt to laugh again.

By morning, though, reality set in. These animals needed more than an urban loft—they needed grass, fresh air, and room to roam. I started calling local farms, animal sanctuaries, anyone who might take them off my hands. But every lead fizzled out. Either they didn’t have space or weren’t interested in such young goats.

Then there was Mrs. Harlow.

Mrs. Harlow owned a small hobby farm about forty minutes outside the city. She sounded kind on the phone, but when I showed up with the goats crammed into carriers in my car, she shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “I wish I could help, but my pastures are full. Too many mouths to feed already.”

Defeated, I sat on the tailgate of my car, watching the goats nibble absentmindedly at the straps of their carriers. That’s when Mrs. Harlow leaned in closer. “You know,” she said softly, “there’s someone else you should talk to. A man named Sam Griggs. He runs a rescue operation down the road. If anyone can help, it’s him.”

Sam Griggs turned out to be exactly the kind of person you’d expect to run a rescue: tall, wiry, with calloused hands and a beard that looked like it had been growing since the ’70s. His property was sprawling, filled with chickens, pigs, horses, and yes, goats. Dozens of goats.

“This your first rodeo?” he asked, eyeing the trio in my arms.

“First rodeo? First goat rodeo,” I corrected, laughing nervously.