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Auntie, stirred and stretched under his sheepskin blanket.
    â€œHang your blankets to dry,” said Auntie, her voice commanding.
    Maybe she is still angry, I thought. A sheep bleated softly. The goats and sheep were my best friends. We always named the babies, and they responded to their names. Sometimes, when my aunt was mean, my sister Dora and I hid in the cornfield. Dora, whose Navajo name, Biníshiit Baa, meant “woman who fights a battle in a circle,” was a good companion. When we felt lonely, the sheep and goats always made us feel better. Especially the kids and lambs that followed us around, just like dogs.
    Old Auntie hoisted the heavy sheepskin water bag and poured water into the empty coffee can that she used to cook breakfast. The herd always found shallow, scattered water holes when it was on the move, but we Diné (the People) wanted clean water. We carried drinking water from our well at home when traveling with the sheep and goats. I’d watched Grandma make that water bag, stripping the wool, oiling the leather with animal fat to make it waterproof, then stitching the thick material. It had taken a week.
    I stood and shook my blankets, the bottom one soft and the top one slick to shed rain or snow. A lamb, no more than a few weeks old, jumped at the sudden flapping. Last night’s shower, a soft, female rain, had lasted for only a short while, barely dampening the bedding. I hung the blankets over a tree limb to dry, along with the sheepskins on which I’d slept the previous night.
    I pulled a shirt on over my head. I slept in my shorts, a hodgepodge of patches and mends. The soles of my feet had thick calluses that enabled me to walk over rough ground without pain. I preferred to go barefoot in the warmer months.
    Auntie frowned at me but grabbed a pinch of corn pollen from the pouch worn around her neck. She touched my tongue and head with the pollen derived from our tribe’s staple food. Then she held her pinched fingers out to the east, south, west, and north, the morning blessing.
    â€œ Betoli, milk a couple of the ewes and fill this bottle.” Auntie handed me a Coke bottle. “Don’t spill any.”
    Betoli, my “traditional” name, meant “light complexion” in Navajo. 12 I belonged to my mother’s clan, the Black Sheep ( Dibé-lizhiní or Dibéŧizhiní in Navajo). Navajo clan affiliations are passed down through the mother, not the father. Decisions involving me were made by the clan. I had heard Father offer opinions, which were considered respectfully. But I knew the clan was responsible for the final verdict when considering any problem involving me and my brothers or sister.
    I did as told, first washing the manure from the teats of two sleepy ewes. The manure assured that their lambs did not nurse until the humans wanted them to. Then, leaning my forehead against the warm flank of the first sheep, I mimicked what I’d heard Old Auntie say as she milked.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll leave some milk for your lamb.”
    I milked both ewes into a small pail, pouring the milk carefully into the soda bottle. When I looked around, Old Auntie was still busy at the campfire. I placed the bottle of milk on the ground, not too close to the fire, so Auntie wouldn’t knock it over in the dark. That would anger her for sure.
    Grabbing the small pail, I approached a female goat. While I petted her head she nuzzled against me, content. After a while I reached for a teat and bent to squirt milk into the pail. I raised the pail to drink. 13 I loved goat’s milk, although it was really better after it had been boiled. My eyes squinted as the sharp milk hit my tongue. Boiling gave the milk a milder flavor, although it didn’t always get rid of all impurities. Once I found a bug—I think it was a louse—gorged on milk till it was about ready to pop, in the boiled milk pail. Still, I preferred the sharp