Silent Night, Holy What?

Shortly after the sun retired yesterday and the stars began to twinkle against the inky black sky, I knew it was going to be a bitterly cold night. The milkyway stretched out in an immense blanket and the sparkling stars in it introduced me to infinity.

I turned the key in the ignition of my car to the "off' position and sat quietly looking through the windshield. Above me, the moon- full just a few nights ago- glowed low in the East. Normally, it would serve as a beacon to guide me to my back door. On this night, however, the clear cold sky offered a much brighter display. I opened the door of my car and stepped onto my driveway. Pausing once more to comprehend the eternity which sparkled above my head, I felt small, human, and vulnerable.

The moon and solar system bathed the world in an ancient light. My imagination, or maybe it was cellular memories, wondered how many times I had stood under this blanket of lights. While pondering concepts of immortality and things larger than the scope of my brain, I cleared the single step leading to my back porch.  Absently, I began to fumble in the darkness for the black metal handle of the storm door.

Suddenly beneath the cotton turtleneck and hood of the gray sweatshirt I wore, the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. I sensed a presence in the darkness, standing a few feet from me. My back porch is located on the driveway end of a ranch-style home and is the primary entrance used by ourselves, friends, and family. It is shaped in an arc, covered by a roof, and home to not only my back door but also a set of French-style patio doors leading to my living room. Along with the usual patio furniture and grill, there is also a stash of firewood (useful for toasty fires on wintery evenings) and a receptacle for recyling aluminum cans.

My eyes strained to adjust from the brilliance of the evening sky to peer into the recessed alcove of the porch.  There, lying between the stack of carefully selected firewood and carefully smashed up aluminum cans, was the goat. She was resting upon a doormat with her legs curled tightly beneath her. Silently, she nodded her head and lowered her horns in greeting.

I briefly weighed my options. Did I allow her to remain on the porch, curled up against the wind and bitter cold? Did I shoosh her back to the pasture to bed down near the donkies and llama for the night? I quickly surmised that she may provide some security against other, less friendly creatures who may seek shelter on a cold evening. I found the door handle and manipulated the lever opening the door.

Looking over my shoulder at the little gray bundle of fur huddled in the darkness, I said, "Goodnight, Goat."
Her golden eyes looked back through the night. Slowly, as if acknowledging our one-sided conversation, she nodded again.