We made it almost two months with our trio of goats, but today they were loaded into the back of a black pick-up truck and hauled away.
I consider myself a farm girl in the sense that I’m married to a full-time farmer. He’s a tractor-driving, overhaul- wearing, salt-of-the earth type man.
I like to ride around with him and enjoy the scenery. I’m not opposed to hard work or getting muddy, but I’ve learned that I draw the line when it comes to goat manure.
I’m obviously not a full-fledged rural goddess.
Yep. That’s what my two-month stint as the proud owner of three goats taught me.
A kind neighbor man down the road gifted us the first two goats. And we acquired the third-goat- a one-eyed beauty I named Gypsy, after another neighbor learned we were running a goat sanctuary in our backyard.
We own a rather large farm, but I was determined that the goats should take up residence in our back yard.
“The kids would love it!” I exclaimed.
“They’d mow the grass with their teeth!” I coaxed.
My husband tried talking me out of the endeavor.
But I gave him a kiss and told him it would be just fine.
So, yeah. It is my fault the goats became our pets.
My husband built a fence.
My kids helped named them.
And we warmly welcomed Pickles, Brownie, and Gypsy to our backyard with a bucket of home-grown corn and a fresh bed of straw.
“Look Perry. Our kids have their first pets!” I gushed after we brought them home.
The goats climbed to the top of the swing-set fort.
They played in the water sprinklers with my kids.
We feed them ice-cream and peanut butter crackers.
I bragged about them on Instagram.
They were cute.
And my kids loved them.
But, have you ever heard the saying, “Don’t x#it where you eat.”
Well, the goats evidently invented that saying and it is their primary commandment for life.
You see, we’ve got about an acre of a backyard full of lush grass and vegetation.
We have a very small concrete patio. Yeah. The goats exclusively used the patio as their bathroom.
So every day I’d sweep. And I’d hose it down.
One day, while I was spraying the disaster, I realized I was wearing stilettos and cleaning up goat manure.
Those items don’t go together.
The goats quickly became a little less bucolic in my mind.
Then they started escaping their back-yard sanctuary. It appears we had chosen a highly independent breed.
People would come over for a visit and end up help us chasing goats around the yard.
Our kids’ babysitter even learned how to shepherd goats one night when she spied them out the window and feared they might not be able to swim.
It’s not that the grass was greener on the other side. It’s that the concrete perimeter around the pool deck was calling their name.
Have I mentioned they will only use concrete?
I sent my husband a scathing text message. I told him that he didn’t even need to try to fix the fence…we were finding a new home for those blasted goats.
So this week we wrangled the goats and took them to our front pasture to live out the rest of their days in the company of our llamas.
I told the kids we could still visit them, but that if they stayed in the backyard we would never be able to swim in the pool. They had a choice.
Turns out the pool trumped the goats.
Clearly we have strong allegiances to our pets.
Unfortunately, the llamas and goats didn’t coexist. It was a continuous game of chase.
I think the goats also realized that the pasture was a concrete-free zone.
So they escaped.
And strolled into my front yard.
We have a stamped-concrete porch.
You get the drift.
Well, the goats almost lasted two-whole months on the farm, but this morning Pickles, Brownie, and Gypsy were locked in a cage and placed under the custody of the County Sheriff.
He heard about their plight.
He says he came to rescue them. I say he came to arrest them for vandalism.
Whatever the case, the Sheriff is a real-deal goat farmer.
As for me…I’ve given up that title.
I’m a farm girl—but I do have limits.
Love & Blessings,