Goat watching in Lewisburg

A coat destined for blue ribbons

You reserved this day for goats. If the traffic backup lasts, you’ll turn around and head for the goat cheese creamery in Elkmont, just across the Alabama border. Plastic and metal bits from a live accident scene cover the road from the west. The country road becomes fall’s grand entrance, greens leaves drifting into the short reign of brilliant colors, wind whipping at every turn, the temperature embracing autumn in time for a festival that would not work in sweltering heat.

What brings you to Lewisburg in the first ripened days of fall? Dead center between Nashville and Huntsville, Lewisburg belongs to no metro. Named for the pioneer who died 50 miles west (Merriweather Lewis) in a county named after the longest-serving chief justice (John Marshall), Lewisburg bears the touch of most small Tennessee county seats – a courthouse rises where the two main roads converge, surrounded by a broken square of businesses.

In placid Rock Creek, spiny softshell turtles spar, single aggressive turtle forcing the rest to flee into the darker depths. Cover bands or karaoke echo from the main stage. Crowds fill the long aisle of vendor tents. The accents thicken as the words hasten. The crowd is not pasty white, as African-Americans comprise a strong percentage of visitors. But you haven’t traveled this far for music or home goods.

At the aisle’s end, signs in block letters warn against bringing any pets within 100 feet of the competition tents and pens. Only goats could hold that sway in early October. Myotonic goats, better known as fainting goats, trace their origins to this part of Tennessee, although the specifics are murky.

Nancy pets a champion.

In Nashville, it would have been blissfully ignored; here there’s not a dog anywhere close. These festival goers know how rambunctious dog’s barks might rattle the goats. No one dares smuggle one past the sign, even a purse-sized breed. The cowboy boots and hats are not ironic here, not the drunken purchases of tourists on Lower Broadway or wannabe country stars trying to look the part.

Many attendees here have farming in the blood. Before the holding area, signs warn of more serious matters, requiring a scrapie-free certification for any goat entering the pens. Thanks to the Icelandic film Rams, you know scrapie was a severely contagious disease related to mad cow disease that afflicts sheep and goats. One infected goat could cause quarantine and the slaughter of herds in an entire region.

The tone relaxes in the pens, where all competing animals rest and graze. Ribbons adorn the metal fencing; even champions would run if granted the chance. Pets are allowed, as some goats stand on the fence bars to survey spectators for food.

Myotonic and Boer goats are meat goats. Most of the breed have a date with the slaughterhouse. Ribbon winners might stay on the competition circuit for breeding with other ribbon winners.

But the categories with older goats generally offered the fewest competitors. One category of older does had only one goat; a year earlier, two to four competed in categories for ages two years and older. You need three years to find a trend; even then, you’re guessing.

The handlers position them, squaring the legs. The review just begins with a pass through the field of competitors. You will see private parts inspected, teeth scrutinized. You will hear names, sometimes simple (Harmony, Magnolia, Little Flashy), complex (Lickskillet Lake Platinum Eyes). Some only receive factory line numbers (F-470).

The only signs of Nashville you hear are the people who talk through competition after competition, then muse about why the fainting goats don’t faint. After hearing this wise talk, you’ll watch from a different set of bleachers.

If it would have stopped their talking, you would have answered. Myotonic goats don’t faint on command because they need to be frightened, then their legs seize up and they collapse. Competition undoubtedly stressed some goats but none showed fright necessary for fainting.

These goats don’t roam, not here, not during competition. They push against their leashes. They launch up their front legs into their owners when forced into a pose they refuse. No participant is docked points for bad behavior. Too many squirm and lunge when examined, even the winners. The judges walk the crowd through every rank, extracting the good in every last-place finisher while building toward the winners.

When you leave, the goats behind are just a snapshot, a moment in time. By next year, kids will have sired their own kids, heirs groomed for competition. When October strikes, the goats will lure you to Lewisburg.