Goats and Sheep

Citizens of the Earth

Zhang Yangyang

Changjiang Literature and Art Publishing House

August 2021

45.00 （CNY）

Zhang Yangyang

A graduate of the Chinese Department of Nanjing University， he works for Wujin Library. His principal works include the poetry collections The Ballad of Malan and The Green Handkerchief and the prose collections The Courtyard， Old Rain， and Letters from Plants.

This book is a prose collection on bugs and beasts， about 52 common everyday animals like goats， sheep， foxes， turtles， frogs， snakes， camels， hares， pigeons， ants， and snails. The author’s delicate writing recreates an animal world pulsating with life， poetry， and sincerity.

They come for the sake of this world. I like to think of them as a great and uncontaminated secret. I like J. H. Moore calling them “the children of the sky”.

Every evening， when the goats return to the pen， the baboon will be busy carrying every kid goat gently and carefully to the nanny goats now “bleating” for their children. It will let them suckle on their teats and feed on their milk. The baboon has excellent memory. It knows each kid’s mother and never makes a mistake. Since a nanny goat has only two teats， when the baboon discovers a nanny goat with three kids， it will take the third kid to a mother goat with just one so that the “extra” kid can also grow up strong and healthy.

This heartwarming scene may seem like a lovely fairy tale， but it’s no hokey or made-up tale in certain farmsteads of West Africa. I’m willing to bow to a baboon or be a similarly smart and attentive baboon， despite its amusing naivete that is readily exploited for roughness， and despite the fact that it has started to rely on human beings， moving slowly away from nature. But at least the baboon can use its “conduct” to counteract humankind’s progressively dire predicament. Would peace reign on earth if we could read between the lines and understand why a baboon is so busy sharing its love with another species？ In the summer before the last， my classmate Tan Shuqin volunteered to go to distant， uninhabited Hoh Xil to protect the Tibetan antelopes. She fell ill， unable to adapt to the harsh climate. I followed her trip in the Nanjing newspaper and in her Hoh Xil journals， written while she was ill. I could sniff the odor of Tibetan antelopes in Lu Chuan’s documentary Mountain Patrol， yet I smelled the choking odor of gunpowder and irrepressible fury instead amid heaps of white bones. I always feel that the Tibetan antelope is an incarnation of some sacred soul， able to slowly adapt to and miraculously survive in such a hostile environment. They are hiding from the most terrible animal in the world， yet they are still almost driven to extinction by this terrible animal. So how can God’s merciful fondness for them and my wet eyes overcome the drooling greed？

There is a Chinese zodiac based on the cycle of a selected animal’s daily activities. Weishi is one to three o’clock in the afternoon. A goat grazing during those hours will grow up strong. Born at midnight in May 1979， the goat is my zodiac sign. I was not born in the zodiac hour with plenty to eat， but one with enough to sleep， so I am unlikely to starve. I must have been well fed at Weishi， and delivered into this world lazily at midnight， aiming for an easy life with plenty of food and sleep. Years later， this “goat” boy would take up an important job after school： roaming the fields with a bamboo basket in his left hand and a sickle in his right. He would lead the family’s nanny goat through the countryside to the home of a goat-rearing aunt in a neighboring village. He would hand the nanny goat over and watch it “fight” with the aunt’s goats. The boy never cared for the vague mumbling of the grown-up. He simply watched in pleasant surprise as two bleating kids slipped out from the nanny goat’s womb four months later. Every evening， he would work even harder： fresh green grass.

Years later， I left the countryside and went to live in a place inhabited only by humans. On an evening when I particularly missed the goats， I encountered Sappho， an ancient Greek poetess， who was gazing out in her warm pastoral： “The sheep and goats return to their pens， the children to their mother’s arms”. I loved this gentle verse like I was looking into the meek eyes of the goats I once fed. I also discovered Wei An： “Among all creatures， I find a goat’s existence the most meaningful.” I loved him calling goats “the sons of God”. I also encountered the poem “No Goat” in The Book of Songs： “Who says you have no goats？ You have three hundred.” When the goats gather in a herd， horn to horn， I love their orderly， harmonious “reserve and caution， afraid that one from the herd might stray or be lost”. I love their different postures as they “descend the hills， drink in the pool， doze or remain awake”. So calm， docile， and interesting in their irregularity.

I have only seen a few goats in my finite memory. They were the same species as those in Li Shizhen’s Compendium of Materia Medica： “Those born south of the Yangtze River are Wu goats， with similar heads and bodies and short wool”. They gave me sad memories： in a low， dark， damp cottage， a nanny goat I once fed died after delivering two kids. My mother and I picked her up and tossed her into a small river not far away. I cried buckets over her death. My mother bought baby bottles and milk powder from the market. I stopped mowing and “forced” the kids to survive. One died， and I cried over it again. The one that survived soon grew into a docile nanny goat. I continued strolling through the fields happily. But a few years later， my mother sold her to a butcher when I was away.

Life in the countryside came to an end， and memories would cease for a moment. So I could only envy writers who live in grasslands. The words “flocks of sheep” would stand out in their writing， making me envious. “Flocks of sheep” is too big and too luxurious a phrase for me. It’s almost as if my journey so far is one of the deficiencies. In the vast and boundless grassland， the “flocks” are wandering white clouds. Snuggling up to them， you have everything you want to embrace in your life. Nothing can be more wonderful than breathing in those “clouds” and living the rest of your life with your loved ones.

I long to see the sheep in the north， but I’m not brave enough to live there. Maybe it’s because I abstain from mutton and goat meat even though I’m no vegetarian. The north reminds me of frost and innocent sheep afflicted with the cold. In the south， no matter how my father persuades me to eat succulent goat meat to warm my stomach， I cannot. I’m not claiming to be compassionate. Even after making a pot of goat meat， I can never touch even one piece. I can’t explain why I hate it so much. I will be offended by the odor： it doesn’t simply “stink” like those haters of goat meat claim it to stink. I must be naturally timid at heart. “Among the six domestic animals， the goat functions as food”. My mind has already accepted this natural conclusion.

Perhaps the study of cuisines is itself an important branch in the evolution of human civilization. So how could I refute this？ Yuan Mei once said that there are seventy-two ways to cook a whole goat for dinner， but only eighteen or nineteen of these ways can make it taste good. This gourmet， used to traveling around China， seemed to sigh a little. He mentioned a “goat stomach soup” in his Menu for Casual Gardens： “Rinse the goat stomach， boil and shred it. Simmer it in a broth. Add a dash of pepper and vinegar. Stir fry in the Northern style; done in the Southern style， it won’t taste as crisp”. As I read this， I thought： how would a human stomach feel digesting a goat stomach？ Chafing and churning， the flavor of grass would probably be lost in the mucus.

Rather than heed Wei An’s advice， “Those who eat grass will be eaten by grass; those who eat sheep will end in a sheep’s belly”， let us evoke the now fashionable phrase ---" “environmental conservation”. There will be a bleating in my ear whenever I read this. My heart will constrict at the bleating ---" I don’t know whether it’s from the one I fed， or from the other one that I don’t know of. I really can’t find a more gentle animal than a goat.

It seems to strike a chord with Axel Linden as well： “Something between the sheep and me has existed a long time in this world， far longer than my lifespan or the sheep’s， far longer than these bushes and trees， or even books and knowledge.” Axel Linden could not say what it was. Neither can I.