Goat Hunt

The problem with trying to raise decent, responsible humans is that you've got to be one yourself, even when you don't really feel like it. Which is how I found myself on a goat hunt at 9:00 last night. Quick, unnecessary recap: my middle daughter wanted to sell a market goat at fair last summer and now I'm a reluctant goat rancher.

Anyway, the goat she bred in May finally gave birth to twins (not triplets, thank the lord for small mercies) and yours truly has carried the bulk of responsibility of making sure momma goat and Brooks and Dunn all live to see another day. They're a little over a week old so they've been out foraging in the pasture and are supposed to be put away at night. Now, there will be no finger pointing but suffice it to say that it was dark:thirty when we got home last night, and wouldn't you know it, Brooks and Dunn were no where to be seen. Now, as someone who tends to fall to the worst possible outcome rather quickly, even I wasn't convinced when my daughter called me from the pen, lamenting that the poor baby goats had been eaten.  I vacillated between telling my kid that she should have put them away and feeling guilty that I didn't talk to her about putting them away before she left for soccer practice. You can imagine, we were both feeling really great about the situation.

Although I wasn't convinced the babies had been predated upon (no signs of anything traumatic happening and the grown goats weren't acting spooked), after about 20 minutes of scanning the field in the dress and sandals I wore to work with nothing to guide me but the woefully inadequate light from my iPhone, I did become convinced that someone had broken into our pasture and kidnapped our baby goats. Rational brain, fully loaded. 

Stumbling around the field, dodging blackberry brambles (aren't goats supposed to eat those things?) and goat turds, I sent a last ditch text to the 4H leader.

Me: You didn't by chance come and grab the goats early, did you? They're just not with momma and we're trying to find them...in the dark.

Her: I sure didn't. Do you need help?

What ensued was some back in forth on my end on how and why someone might want to kidnap these baby goats, why I didn't think they were dead and how I needed to check security cameras to see if I could identify any suspicious vehicles that might have stopped in the camera frame in order to jump our fence and steal the baby goats. Mostly on her side was repeated offers to come help us look for them. Finally, after attempting to review security footage to see if the Wayfair delivery person lured the babies to his van with whatever the equivalent to goat candy is, I relented. 

Her: I really don't mind coming down.

Me: Okay, if you're sure. I'll be wandering the field. Thank you.

Her: Give me 10 minutes.

Me: We don't have any huge spotlight so if you have one of those, that would be really helpful. 

Having called in the cavalry, my lizard brain calmed down a notch and I was able to come up with the brilliant (obvious) light solution: I drove my car into the field and turned on my brights. Boom. I also changed from my sundress and sandals to Bog boots and jeans, which for the uninitiated, is much more appropriate attire for a goat hunt. 

Ten minutes later the 4H leader found me and my daughter roaming around the filed in the headlights of the SUV. She rolled into our driveway and got out of her truck and lit up a hand torch which possessed what I'm thinking was something like 3,000,000 lumens. 

Like a professional, she started suggesting places babies may have escaped or gotten stuck. After about the 5th "Um...I'm not sure" response to her detective questions, she gave up on asking me anything about their habits or preferences. As I've said, we adhere to the Neglect practice of animal husbandry, which largely seems to work for us unless you count last night and the Case of the Missing Babies. Anyway, it only takes about five minutes until I hear Leader yell, "Found 'em!" Brooks and Dunn were hiding up under the fallen tree that acts as the base for a not small debris pile at the bottom of our pasture.  

It would be a lot funnier picture to paint if I had laid on my belly and slithered under there to grab a goat by the leg to drag it out, but it was my daughter who wound up on the final stint of the rescue mission and in no time at all, we were walking back up to the pen, pissed off baby goat writhing in our arms and screaming to beat the bands. Over their cries, the leader was advising us on the importance of having the goats in the pen before dark and next steps to take so that we can hopefully get these animals to fair next August. 

Can't wait.