Though smaller in scale, they were a regular part of local life. Herds of cows were driven from barns to distant pasturage, and creatures great and small were often moved through our streets, on their way to the railroad and distant markets.

I don't know when Fly Creek saw its last livestock drive-perhaps not in living memory. But last month's flooding brought back a lot of our past customs, including neighbors joining together to fight a common threat. It also brought the livestock drive back to Fly Creek.

Those surging waters brought out the best in Fly Creekers. Dozen of volunteers, using our reclaimed firehouse as a base, worked together to clear roads and culverts, prevent heavy flooding, pump swamped basements. In the last-mentioned category, five separate crews worked steadily, right around the clock, some pumping the same cellars repeatedly as the waters rose.

Still other volunteers hauled food and drink to the firehouse to keep the crews fed and energized. Between us, my bride and I made a monumental batch of macaroni and cheese, a pile of fried chicken, a stack of brownies. And other households were matching us.

But besides feeding the hungry, Anne and I ended up with a special role during the flood. It followed on an urgent call from David McGown, one of the hard-working volunteers. "The Cooks' barn on Feed Store Road is filling up with water," said David. "Can you take in their animals?"

Well, of course we could. I put the wood sides on the pickup, and Anne drove it off to Edwin and Judy Cook's.

She found a desperate Judy trying to move wildly panicked animals out of their quarters. Between them, the women got some goats into the truck. I was still opening the fence into our east pasture when they pulled into the driveway.

Moments later a ragtag parade followed them down Cemetery Road. Here came Debbie Dickinson, leading another goat. Then Edwin Cook, steadying a handsome, skittish stallion, its eyes rolling with fright, with a second goat pacing alongside it.

Next was Caryl Voght, holding onto still another goat that wanted to go every way but forward. And finally Kim McGown, tenderly carrying a brown-and-white kid in her arms, with a bearded old billy, its dad, trotting behind her and baa'ing in protest.

As the animals gathered and entered our field, we had a cacophony of baa's and blatting. From down in the south field, our own sheep took up the hue and cry.

The noise abated when the arrivals realized their new digs weren't half bad: big pasture of tall grass, water tub, feed trough, with shade trees along the edges. Once they caught on to all this, the goats went right to work on overdue trimming and pruning.

A relieved Judy explained that we'd have to keep Thomas, a.k.a. "The Jumper," on a tether. And at once, to demonstrate this, Thomas leaped over the four-foot fence-from a standing start. Meanwhile, Beatrice the goat, constant companion to Granada the horse, was already munching her way across the pasture, with Granada dutifully ambling behind. Nicole, a young mother, had got her two kids under control, and the three were feeding together. And Balki, the twins' dad, was working his way along the fence, chomping but also looking for ways out.

It's goats' brightness, and their ingenuity at escape, that has always kept me from raising them. Too many stories, you see, of goats ripping up flower and vegetable gardens, and goats jumping onto car hoods and roofs, dimpling them with their tap-dancing hooves.

But goats as visitors, especially refugees from the flood, was a different matter. Anne and I spent a lot of time in garden chairs, sitting in the shade to enjoy their antics. They were great entertainment and seemed to enjoy watching us, too.

For their part, our sheep stayed on their side of the fence and ignored the visitors. Our dog Blue was enormously entertained by their presence and was sure he should be herding them. Only Owen the cat, our senior animal, was unsettled by the goats. But Owen is about fifteen, a geezer in cat years, and is entitled to resent change.

Granada the horse gave us the most fun. Fourteen hands tall, glossy brown with luxuriant mane and tail, Granada alternately browsed in the grass and struck handsome poses, his haunches and shoulders twitching against the onslaught of flies. He loved to come to the fence to be stroked; and once, when I was in the pasture adjusting Thomas' tether, he walked up behind me and draped his massive head over my shoulder to watch. Beatrice, of course, was right at his side.

The refugees' visit was over far too soon. On last Sunday Fly Creek witnessed a second livestock drive in a week, this one more orderly than the first. Again wonderful neighbors turned out to help herd. This time Mark Weir led the procession with Granada, while Ann Vickary followed close behind with Beatrice. Maureen Weir walked with The Jumper, who was surprisingly well behaved. Judy Cook led Nicole, flanked by the nanny's twins, Sugar and Spice. Then came Edwin Cook with Balki, who did as much leaping and lunging as actual trotting.

At the procession's end came our Blue. Because his herding instinct, though intense, is wholly untrained, we thought it best to leave Blue back in the house. But through the kitchen window the dog watched the drive moving up Cemetery Road-without him! It was too much to bear.

He barrreled through dining and living rooms, knocked out a window screen, leaped onto the screened porch, then squeezed through the cat door to freedom. We weren't a quarter mile down the road when he streaked happily into our midst, tail wagging wildly.

Anne used the other end of the long rope on Balki to secure Blue, and he trotted the rest of the way behind the livestock drive, pleased and satisfied. As were we all. That was a great day for us Fly Creekers, four-footed and bipeds alike.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. Learn about his book at JimAtwell.com.