A recently acquired friend – one of the best kind when you move to a new place – raises bovids. Of the goat variety.

Not many. Just six. Which seems like plenty of Bovidae to me. I can barely manage one dog.

The 6 receive typical goat stuff like freshly cut tree limbs with leaves. A rare delicacy in hill country deserted by rain.

Of the 6 there’s a favorite one. Privileged. Set apart. Holy?

The 5 walk. She rides. They eat leaves. She eats treats. From a bag.

They go by generic goat names. She goes by Poppy.

We asked if Poppy was on track to become cabrito. Isn’t that the main reason one raises ruminants?

My new bud took offense. “Totally inappropriate.” Something about not eating what you name.

Over three millenniums ago God’s people lived enslaved in Egypt. God’s less intrusive plans to rescue them fell on hard hearts.

The final resort entailed death of the land’s firstborns. Compliments of the Angel of Death. Only those protected by the blood of a lamb survived.

A lamb chosen by the ones who needed it. A lamb cared for by the ones who butchered it. Perhaps the children even named it.

Something sweet sounding with plenty of P’s.

The Exodus account foreshadowed our reality. We, too, belong to God. Rescued from slavery to our dead-end selves. Protected from the Angel of Death.

All accomplished by the blood of the Lamb. God’s Lamb. With a name. Jesus.

No P’s there.