"Eight Ball," not in the side pocket, but tucked for warmth in the front of my friend's jacket. I had received another SOS call early in the morning, "Do you have any milk? I need it now!" Tim raises Kiko meat goats and a doe had delivered triplets, one of which was not getting enough or even any milk and was dying. I said I had buckets in hand to go to the barn. "This baby can't wait. I'm bringing him and heading your way!" I was milking when Tim and Eight Ball arrived. He had not been exaggerating. Eight Ball couldn't even hold his head up and had not been able to stand for hours, getting weaker and weaker. I poured Cindy's warm milk into a pan and Tim, with a little one-handed help from me (still milking with the other), got a tube down the baby's throat and used a syringe to get some nourishment into that tiny tummy. It seemed pretty touch-and-go for a bit, Eight Ball's head lolling on Tim's arm, eyes closed. I went on tending to my barn chores. Eight Ball perked up a little, so much that when we gave him some of Tessie's milk, we could use just the syringe because he could at least swallow on his own. A stranger in the barn freaked out Inga (she spooks if I hang my jacket on a nail), so Tim took the baby out of the pen to sit on the grass in the sunshine, thankful that there was sunshine.
It was a good day. (The storm is back this morning.)