Flash

Sleeping with the Nanny

"When my time comes, I want to die in the bush and be eaten by a bear," my uncle Helmut used to say. "It's only fair. God knows I've eaten enough of them."

Unfortunately for any starving bears hoping for an easy meal, Helmut outlived his bush-rambling days. By the time he was seventy, diabetes and a series of strokes had robbed him of all but the most rudimentary vision. He couldn't drive (although he continued to renew his license, just in case), and it was all he could do to carry his groceries up the stairs to his second-story apartment. Despite his limitations, his optimism never faltered. He had staked a multimillion dollar claim once upon a time, and he knew the next big one was just around the corner.

On pension day, after a particularly exhilarating grocery shopping spree, he dropped dead as he was unlocking his apartment door.

His final send-off was a hedonistic affair with a dozen bottles of white wine and another dozen of red, with uniformed waitresses to do the pouring. Catered goodies were provided by the Prince Arthur, Thunder Bay's premier hotel, courtesy of a former mining associate who happened to be grubstaking Helmut when he struck it rich. Since it was not generally known that Helmut's mining company had more liabilities than assets, an undercurrent of anticipation flowed through the crowd of mourners. A significant number of them expected to be millionaires in short order. Helmut had no compunction whatsoever about making extravagant promises to anyone who was willing to keep his business ventures afloat. "It keeps them happy," he would say, "And happiness is the most important thing in life."

The open mic portion of the funeral gathering extolled Helmut's geological acumen, his irrepressible enthusiasm, his legendary generosity (especially with other people's assets), and his creativity in extracting loans and extensions from even the most reluctant creditor. He was a king of the timberland – a dreamer par excellence – a veritable patron saint of hopeful prospectors. His benign spirit would surely continue to haunt the watering holes along Highway 17, not to mention the cook shacks of his favourite mines.

The best stories were left untold, of course. Perhaps it would have been unseemly to mention Christine, the nanny goat whose milk sustained Helmut in the wilderness for two years. Even with free wine and a deluxe dessert buffet, there is a limit to how much fun is allowed at a funeral.

Helmut won Christine in a poker game just as he was getting ready to visit one of his claims. The price of gold was at an all-time high, and his financial prospects were all but non-existent. As he was wont to do in difficult times, he loaded up his truck and set out very early in the morning before his creditors began their daily rounds. He brought along his newly acquired livestock and his friend Eddie, whose wife had just walked out. Eddie had a gun and was threatening to use it. Helmut figured that a little holiday in the bush was just what Eddie needed.

They made their way to Helmut's camp on a rocky island near one end of Tatamouche Lake. There, they set to mining gold in the old-fashioned way – breaking up the rock with sledge hammers, and then washing out the gold. It was a good vein, even yielding the occasional nugget. The proceeds were sufficient to keep them in supplies, pay the most urgent outstanding bills, and acquire the materials to build a shack, while allowing ample time for rest and recreation.

The goat thrived on the wilderness camping experience. She had the run of the island and plenty of rocks to climb. The men milked her and talked to her and often took her along on their trips. She did not relish overland transportation, but she learned to enjoy riding in the prow of the freight canoe like a pagan figurehead.

Helmut had an uncanny affinity to animals. When he was four years old, a zookeeper had invited him into a gorilla cage for a visit. One of the females immediately adopted young Helmut and fiercely resisted all efforts by this frantic mother to reclaim her child. Whenever he reached the maudlin phase of drunkenness in his adult years, Helmut would moan, "I wanted to be an ape, but my mother wouldn't let me!" The goat was not as exciting as a gorilla, of course, but she dispensed fresh milk daily. Helmut told Eddie that he chose to name the nanny Christine because his own middle name was Christian, and the goat was his alter ego. He neglected to disclose that Christine was also his mother's name.

Christine slept in niches in the rock until the advent of the freezing rain season. One morning, the men woke up to her frantic bleating. They rushed to the scene, fearing that a predator had swum to their island. Christine's feet were solidly frozen to the rock. They had to build a fire and heat water to thaw her out.

After that, they allowed Christine to sleep indoors with them. She soon discovered that the coziest sleeping nook available was inside Helmut's sleeping bag. One thing led to another, and after some negotiation, the two of them shared that sleeping bag, keeping each other warm through the bone-chilling winter nights.

In time, the vein ran out and the price of gold dropped. Christine's milk dried up. Eddie was deemed fit to rejoin human society. Helmut's apartment building had a no pets policy, so he returned Christine to her original owner. Eddie, of course, couldn't keep the story of the interspecies sleeping partners to himself.

As you know, Uncle Helmut is dead. I imagine the goat is dead too. Their story has outlived them both. Prospectors come and go, but it's not every day that one of them sleeps with a goat.