Goat Farming: It's Not All It's Cracked Up To Be

Star Boy, don't let that cute, innocent face fool you

Now that the weather is beginning to warm, I have decided to take over the afternoon feeding and eventually, the afternoon milking. Spending time with my goats is one of the simple pleasures in life. I feel calm and happy even if I sit amongst them while they eat and do their goat thing. Yesterday was my first day of afternoon feeding. The Bibbed Wonder went out to show me how he does things, and to move the five little boys over to the pasture across the drive. Moving all the boys to the pasture across the drive makes the barn less crowded, gives the little guys more space and less competition for feed. It also gives the girls more room and less chaos during kidding season.

Much like my husband, goats do not enjoy change. Moving the little boys across the way was more of an endeavor than anticipated. Most of our goats are very friendly. Star Boy, a large yearling with a white star on his forehead, is particularly friendly. I happily volunteered to walk him across the way to his new pasture thinking it would be a pleasant jaunt with one of my favorite little guys. That was not the case. Sigh.

Star Boy decided he wanted no part of moving to a new pasture. Despite my in-depth explanation of where he was going and the benefits of moving, he was not buying it. As is always the case, I begin with the patience of Mother Teresa. I remain calm, talk softly, try to reason with my goat friend, and give them time to adjust to the idea. I know a goat does not have the reasoning skills I expect them to have. I know that my words are futile. I also know that being gentle only gives the goat the impression that he is in charge of the situation. Eventually, it turns into me with a firm hand on his collar, pulling him as he digs all four feet into the ground as firmly as possible, me cursing a blue streak that would make Satan blush, and the goat screaming like I am murdering it with my bare hands. Goats are a lot like teenagers, they are VERY dramatic.

Star Boy and I made it out of the barn and across the driveway to the yard. He protested loudly the whole way, so I tried to talk him into being compliant while keeping my hand firmly on his collar. As I dragged him, literally kicking and screaming, to the yard, I muttered, "Dude, seriously! This really isn't necessary. See all those boys over there? You are making an ass out of yourself in front of the other boys." Star boy did not care that he looked like an ass. As I had a firm hand on his collar and a tightened grip on the lead rope, he decided that leaping and rearing up on his back legs would rid him of his captor. It made my arm ache and sent me leaping across the yard with him. The goat probably believes he has been renamed with a word that begins with F.

Of course, my trusted canine BFF was outside. The day was lovely and his favorite person was outside, so where else would a Buster be? Bus decided his favorite person was in trouble and the leaping, screaming goat was her attacker. Believing he was coming to my rescue, Bus decided the best course of action was to chase the little goat and nip its heels. That led to more screaming, leaping, and twisting. The goat wasn't very happy about it either. Once I got Bus under control and convinced him I was not being murdered by this large screaming, bouncing goat, he sat and watched the show.

At this point, Star Boy decided to lie down on his side and scream in protest. Have you ever tried to move a goat that doesn't want to be moved, dear reader? It's an almost impossible feat. As I patiently stood trying to convince this m***** f******pain in the a** to get on his feet and move, Bus decided his tactics would be more convincing. He slowly walked over to the goat, gave a loud bark, sniffed his butt, and sent the goat leaping into the air, all the while I am holding on for dear life. I allowed Buster to remain behind us sniffing the goat's butt every chance he got, because it was the only way to keep him on his feet and moving. I now add herding dog to Buster's long list of accolades.

With the warm weather, the ground is saturated with water, and we leave wet, squishy footprints wherever we walk. Those footprints quickly turn slick. We were almost to the gate of the intended pasture field. Ace, our buck, and the other boys stood watching the show as I was dragged all over the front yard by a screaming, leaping goat with a barking dog in tow. I am certain I heard Lester chortle at one point as I was dragged through a mud puddle, mud splashing my clothes and face. Just as I reached for the gate handle, Buster gave Star Boys butt one good sniff and sent the goat twisting and leaping into the air. I was completely caught off guard. All my focus, balance, and energy were into unlatching the gate. I twisted to keep hold of the goat I have renamed M***** F***** and in doing so, twisted my knee, lost my balance, and fell firmly into the soft, muddy ground.

I give myself credit, I kept hold of the lead rope throughout the fall. As I lay on my back, looking up at the lovely blue sky, water seeping into all my clothes, assessing which part of my body hurt the most, and thinking I am way too old for this bullsh**, Star Boy, aka M*****F******A**hole, lept into the air and landed squarly on my foot. He could not land on my left foot, that doesn't hurt from an arthritic bunion. Oh, no, he landed on the right one, which causes me to limp like Quasimodo on a good day. I yelped in pain, sending Buster, my great protector, into a frenzied barking fit, which in turn sent Star Boy into a frantic spin. At this point, dear reader, I think my child needs to switch to cyber school to finish her high school education, we need to sell everything, first being Star Boy, and move ourselves to Aruba free from goats, mud, and cold.

As I clambered to my feet, not quickly or gracefully, I reached for the latch, opened the gate, dragged the goat inside, with one quick snap, unleashed him into the pasture field, slammed the gate shut, and waddled and gimped back to the barn, cursing under my breath with each step. Of course, there were four more goats that needed to be moved. I uttered narry a complaint to my bib overall wearing buddy; he would just make fun of me on my first day of feeding. I quietly grabbed the next dramatic pain in the a**, and dragged him across the yard to the field. This time, Eric and Buster kept the little guy moving. Eric is strong enough to pick up and carry the little ones, which went much better. After it was all over, I turned and showed Eric my backside, pointing out my wet, muddy clothes. He started to giggle, but I turned and when he saw my face he immediately sobered and said, "Sh** buddy, are you okay?" All the while, I could see the mischievous twinkle in his eye and knew that just under the surface he was giggling uncontrollably. I growled, " I am fine," and continued with my chores.

As the night wore on, I noticed my body getting stiff and sore each time I sat down. To his credit, The Bibbed Wonder kept the teasing to a minimum and offered to run me a hot bath. I should have taken the offer, but instead, I took a fistful of Advil and went to bed. This morning, I feel as if I am 1000 years old and have been wrung through the wringer backwards. I definitely don't bounce like I used to, dear reader. Thankfully, there are no goats to move. Now, it is simply giving them grain, watering my chickens, and collecting eggs. I may take that hot bath this morning.

On this rainy but warm day, stay safe, be smart, don't become a goat farmer, it's not all it's cracked up to be, and keep washing your hands.