By Jefferson Weaver
I have always had a particular affection for goats.
They are one of the more practical small farm animals, since they want to do nothing more than eat underbrush and make more baby goats, which will in turn do the same. Unlike sheep, they can defend themselves, and unlike hogs, they don’t reduce the world to a World War I-quality landscape. Goats produce milk that can provide a number of products, and in a pinch, if you are heartless, they are tasty. All in all, goats are pretty cool.
I say this because Miss Rhonda and I are now card-carrying – or shall I say, kid-carrying – members of the Goat Mafia. Unlike the more familiar mafia, however, members of the Goat Mafia have no code of silence. Indeed, one might think we talk
too much about our goats.
After her really bad goat experience with the infamous Baa-Baa Jack, my bride had foresworn ever again having a goat. Indeed, she had threatened to feed me to a hog if I ever brought home another goat. Considering that her hometown was the
location of a trial featuring a woman who had done just that to her husband, I listened.
We managed to have another pair of goats for a while, but Teddy and Rainbow were too competitive, and ended up going to live on separate farms, with other, more compatible goats. We were a goat-free household, enjoying them in principle but not
on the porch.
Then came the social media call for help from a friend.
In retrospect, I am actually surprised it took as long as it did (maybe three hours?) for the word to get to me. Albeit, in this case, I contacted Ray and Dawn, but I’m fairly sure there is a website somewhere that I don’t know about that searches the Internet for posts about orphaned animals and shares my telephone number.
Seriously.
I have discovered random buckets of baby possums left on my desk, with little clue as to where they came from. Never mind the dogs, cats, owls, vultures, rabbits, squirrels, and other beasts folks call us about. People who know people who know
people have called me at midnight wanting me to drive three hours to rescue a squirrel they saved from their cat.
A lady once called me about a pair of pigs running at large in her community, and the directions began with “Go past the crack house, but don’t slow down…” I am not making this up.
Anyway, Dawn and Ray have goats. A lot of goats. As sometimes happens, one of their mom-goats rejected a nearly newborn kid, and they needed someone to bottle raise a critter. I dutifully contacted my bride, since she does all the work.
Considering her previous poor experience with Baa-Baa Jack, I figures she would say no, possibly followed with a few G-rated modifiers for emphasis.
Instead, I had a shopping list within about 30 seconds.
So we brought Bucky home. He will be five weeks home as some of you read these words.
With his floppy ears, permanent smile and plaintive cries, Bucky is a hit wherever he goes. He quickly became a well-traveled goat, due to his feeding schedule. He has attended church and Sunday school, a couple of Christmas parties, a dinner in Wilmington, and Christmas with the in-laws. He went to Christmas with the family. Bucky is like all goats, in that he is similar to an intelligent, inquisitive, easily bored three-year-old with four very hard feet and a penchant for destruction. The books say that every goat needs a goat, so back we went to Ray and Dawn’s to adopt Sally, a little angel of a doe. Like Bucky, she smiles, but her ears stand straight up. She’s also less than half Bucky’s size, although they’re close to the same age.
I defy anyone to remain in a bad mood after five minutes around baby goats. It’s just not possible.
Being the smallest and youngest critter in the household, Sally has a natural urge to butt (or at least push) other animals, to show that while she’s little, she has street credentials. The only problem with this strategy is that all her reputation as a tough girl goes out the window when she butts a cat, who not only doesn’t move, but knocks her sideways. Cats don’t play.
Goats are difficult to housetrain, but it can be done. We make lots of trips outside throughout the day and evening, with excited exhortations to do what is necessary. I’m reasonably sure human parents have the same enthusiasm whilst house training, err, potty training, their two-legged kids.
One learns quickly, however, that trips outside require strict supervision.
Sally has attached herself to Walter the Wonder Dog; Walter is not amused by Sally’s hero worship. His desire for some alone time led to a near-debacle the other afternoon.
Sally and Bucky were playing chicken with the geese. Since geese have the enthusiasm of a drunken Viking berserker when it comes to a fight, and absolutely no sense of humor or fair play, Bucky got bored and decided to chase a cat. Walter took advantage of the geese being distracted and trotted toward the swamp.
Sally, however, followed Walter into the woods. In approximately three seconds, she disappeared.
Rhonda and I spent the next half-hour walking up and down the lane, escorted by Bucky, two dogs, three cats, and four guineas. Well, the guineas weren’t escorting us as much as they were following us to make sure we weren’t following them.
You read that right. Guineas ain’t very smart.
Imagine if you will two humans walking up a tree-lined road going “Baaa! BAAAAA!” followed by Bucky going “BaaaaAAA!” and the occasional guinea screeching in panic, listening intently for a plaintive “Baaa?” from a tangle of ash, gallberry and swamp oak. You see, Sally still hasn’t learned her name (or else like Bucky, she ignores it) but she will respond to a bleat. Ergo, we go baaa a lot in our household.
Sally finally bounced out of the woods behind us, looked our way, and bolted for the house. She was waiting, baaa-ing, when we led our retinue back through the gate. Aside from the occasional piddles and pellets at inopportune times, the constant need for attention, the disgusted cats, and dancing little hooves interrupting a nap on the couch, I have to say: goats may not be the ideal housepet, but overall, they’re an absolute joy to have around.
And that’s not such a baaad thing.
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