TLDR - Still Don't Get Goats

I didn't bother doing a deep dive on this long defunct blog but a quick glance at my most recent posts  would suggest this petered off before I was outvoted and we got goats the first time. Quick recap for those who aren't up to speed: about five years ago my husband decided it'd be a great idea to get goats. Ostensibly to keep the weeds down in the pastures around out home but I'm thinking he was secretly hoping to turn them into pack animals for his many hunting adventures. I had put my foot firmly down on the matter but he and our brood of children walked over said foot and got goats anyway. As is the pattern in our home, once a vision has been created, it is my responsibility to execute. So, I grudgingly texted a friendly acquaintance who I know has a whole herd (flock? gaggle?) of goats and asked if she'd sell me some. Its wasn't stated overtly but I was hoping the subtext (say no, say no, say no) would be obvious. It was not. Which is how we would up with three mini–Nigerian Dwarf goats.

She and her husband pulled up in front of the house and opened the trailer. The goats were deceptively compliment in their decent from the truck and into the pasture. 

"This one is Borf," my friend said, pointing at a particularly ugly black and brown goat. I looked into it's demonic little slitty eyes and I swear one was slightly crossed. 

"Friend," I said, "I specifically asked you not give me any animal that you'd named. I cannot promise we will keep this thing alive."

"O, you'll do great!" she lied to my face. "Goats are easy."

I avoided her for 6 months after that interaction as not Borf, but another one she had given us died two days later under mysterious circumstances. When I finally ran into her downtown one day (you can't avoid people long in this tiny town) I admitted that one of her beloved goats had died in my care. With more grace than I deserved, she assured me that things happen and offered to replace the one who had died. My heart and mind said no but my mouth said, "sure," which is how we would up with three goats once again. 

In the two or three years we had those biological lawn mowers, we also had the non-emergency line called on us. Twice. Apparently, the godawful screeching noise those idiots make when they can't figure out how to get their head unstuck from the pig fencing is distracting to our neighbors who really need to get a day job so they're not home to hears said screeching. During this time, I made it a point to do community outreach and would let anyone with a set of ears know that goat ownership was not a sound financial or emotionally healthy decision. After several PSAs about the lunacy of owning goats, a veterinarian I know suggested her neighbor, a goat rancher, might be able to take them off our hands. 

She texted me her neighbor's number and exactly 13 seconds later I sent a text,

Me: Hi! I hear you're maybe willing to take the goats from us?

Her: Sure. Can I get a picture?

Me: Absolutely (hauls it down to the filed to snap a shot)

Her: Well, we're only interested in the male but we'd take the two females if you'd like. Can I get a closer picture of him?

Me: Sure! 

I run back down to the field with a bucket of grain to get them to come to me--literally, the only goat herding trick I know. The two females come prancing up to me greedily, but the male stays laying down. Weird. I open the gate and kick the two females away, tossing feed at them like a tennis ball to a dog. My heart sinks as I approach the male and he's still not moving. His demonic little eyes blink up at me and although I'm not vet, I'm pretty sure his gut has swelled to twice it's normal size. 

"God. DAMNIT!" The goat has bloat. I confirm with my good friend Google and quickly search methods to keep this poor beast alive, which is how I end up spoon feeding this thing a concoction of baking soda and olive oil from a cereal bowl, straddling its prone body and massaging its guts between servings. I text the rancher back.

Me: So...I think the male has bloat? 

Her: I'll come check it out. 

She arrives at my house thirty minutes later and confirms yes, that thing has bloat. She goes back to her ranch to get what I am assuming is essentially Imodium for ungulates and shoots the first dose in its mouth. "The next dose should be given in 6 hours. If he's still alive in the morning, I'll come back for all of them."

At 1 o'clock that morning I trudge back out into the field in my pajamas and Muck boots. Squeezing my phone between my lips, I use it as a flashlight to try and see while I attempt try to pump as much goat Pepto as I can into the goat's unwilling mouth. I also give its guts a few more squeezes to be safe.

I wake up again at 6:15 and run to check on the goat. He is slowly making his way around the field, foraging for stuff I'm sure he's not supposed to eat. I text the rancher immediately.

Me: He's alive! You can come anytime.

She arrives before 8:00 and I help load the goats into the pins in the back of the truck. A huge weight is lifted as her taillights pull out of our driveway.

This is where a smarter women's story would have ended, but smart choices don't make for interesting stories, and you better believe there is a part two. Because I have a middle child. And as a stereotypical second born/unloved middle child myself, I tend to overcompensate so she doesn't feel like that. Which is how we wound up with more goats. 

See, the at-the-time seventh grader had been BEGGING to give 4H a try, which, in this rural town where we live is not unheard of; however, we are foolishly trying to give our kids the same opportunities kids in suburbia have which is why we wind up spending most weekend nights at a Best Western (Double Diamond Member, baby) watching them compete in sports at a level that is inexplicable when taken to into account that half of their genetics come from me. All that is to say,  livestock does not make sense for our lifestyle. But, I'll be damned if we're not gonna at least *try* to support their dreams, so I square pegged a round hole and became the whatevertheoppositeofproudis owner of four goats back in November.

Now--Pro Tip for any of you who read this and still think "OH MY GOD! WE HAVE TO GET GOATS--SPENDING A WEEK AT FAIR IN 100 DEGREE HEAT SURROUNDED BY THE EXCREMENT OF A THOUSAND ANIMALS SOUNDS DREAMY," your goats can't be older than a year when you take them to auction in August, which means that the goats we got in November--which were born in later July-- didn't qualify to be 4H market goats. So, we bought a 5th. In January. And drove the baby home in a dog kennel in the back of the maxivan. 

I won't bore you with the minutia of raising a market goat, but suffice it to say that some of the paperwork kids have to fill out is an expense sheet so that you can project how much money you'll actually clear come auction, and when my daughter filled out hers, we were looking at $1,200, in the red. Now, she did do well at market (largely because Borf's original owner took pity on the daughter of someone who is so clearly ignorant about all things goat) but it was in the midst of the excitement of fair preparation that she decided she was going to breed our female goat. 

After paying a stud fee for the covering, we were "rewarded" with the news that Maybell may actually be expecting triplets; because, like I've told you before, I'm walking evidence of God's sense of humor. Maybell is due any day so my daughter's 4H leader (who, turns out, is the hapless goat rancher who we pawned the original trio off on) came by yesterday and gave her some kind of supplement. Once again she was gob smacked how our goats are doing well and I gently reminded her that I firmly adhere to the "Neglect" practice of animal husbandry; however, I have given birth and I was feeling guilty that this gigantically pregnant momma goat will be giving (hopefully unassisted) birth to multiple kids any day now, and I didn't want her to do it in a crappy, half-constructed ghetto dog pen-converted goat barn (I was on a phone call with our CPA when I built that thing and I'm pretty sure his testimony to my panting and heaving cursing would suffice as evidence to the appropriateness of our RA zoning). Which is how I spent $128.37 and my entire morning building the goat-equivalent of the Lindo Wing in our side pasture.

So, yeah. Still don't get goats.