Page 6 of Kid Gloves

"The goats come."

Everything in me that has ever filed a report lies down and dies. "The goats can't⁠—"

"The goats come, or I take my nine federally imprinted puppies and my catastrophic barn debt and I go be someone else's breach of contract. Brisket has separation anxiety."

"Brisket ate my fence."

"Brisket is complicated."

I run the math: the renewal, the timeline, the general's office, the look on the government lawyer's face if I explain that the pipeline failed over livestock. Then I run the other math, the one where she stays across a fence line with whatever burned that barn low and fast and hungry, alone, because I couldn't tolerate goats.

"Pasture three," I say. "Double-strand hot wire."

"She'll be through it by Tuesday."

"That," I say, "will be documented."

They arrive at 1400. I watch from the office window, because I have work at the office window.

One horse trailer of puppies and salvaged tack. One truck bed of feed sacks and what a generous man would call furniture. Nine goats who exit the trailer like a SWAT team, immediately fan out, and begin testing pasture three's perimeter for weaknesses. One rooster in a cat carrier, announcing dusk at two in the afternoon. One woman in my old jacket (which I have not asked for back, a fact Jake has also placed on the record) directing the entire operation out loud, constantly, to an audience of animals who plainly run the household.

Tank materializes beside her before the first crate's down. Ninety pounds of failed bomb dog, washed out of the program for excessive optimism, zero respect for my perimeter protocols. He performs one lap of inspection, sits down directly on her feet, and looks back at me across thirty yards like the vote's been counted and I lost.

"Traitor," I say, to no one, in my own office. It's starting already.

Grady wanders in around 1430 with Winnie on his shoulders, ostensibly to review the week's puppy-class schedule, actually to spectate. My niece has been informed there are new puppies on the property and has the focused energy of a five-year-old who intends to litigate access.

"Miss Delaney says I can help socialize," Winnie announces from altitude. "Socialize means pet."

"Does it."

"She says puppies have to meet kids so they're not scared of kids. I'm kids." Unassailable. She lays her cheek on Grady's head and studies me with the Mercer stare, which is unsettling coming back at you out of a kindergartner. "Uncle Wade, why's your face doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Dad, look. It's doing it now."

"It's his compliance face," Grady says, straight as a plumb line, and carries her out before I can respond, which is good, because I don't have a response, because I was watching the yard again and I know exactly what my face was doing.

By 1500 there's a goat on the porch. Not a pasture-three goat. The goat. She's found the exact geometric center of my porch and folded herself onto it like deployed artillery, and when I open the door we regard each other, Brisket and I, two administrators reviewing a disputed border.

"No," I tell her.

Brisket chews. Nothing in her mouth. Chewing on principle.

In the ops office I take the good whiteboard off the wall (the one Jake's been using to rank the county's barbecue, incorrectly) wipe it, and square up a fresh grid. If it's going to be like this, there will at minimum be a record. Date. Time. Subject. Incident. Corrective action.

Incident #1—1512 hrs. Subject: BRISKET (goat, brindle, criminal). Breach of pasture three via method unknown. Occupied porch. Refused verbal commands. Corrective action: pending.

Incident #2—1547 hrs. Subject: BRISKET. Consumed fire marshal's tape measure through fence of pasture three while marshal documented Boone site next door. Marshal requests reimbursement. Corrective action: reimbursed. Receipt filed.

I'm annotating the second one when Ray comes by with the insurance paperwork for the Boone claim, because Ray's already on it, because Ray's been keeping this place's paper straight since I was in high school. He reads the board over my shoulder and laughs that big warm laugh that's been the sound of this office for nineteen years.

"You're going to need a bigger board," he says. "Don't worry about the claim, I'll walk it through personally. Fire marshal, adjusters, all of it. You focus on dogs and the girl."

"The contractor."

"Sure." He squeezes my shoulder on his way out, kind as Sunday. "The contractor."