I often wonder if everyone has well behaved goats and mine are just some spawns of evil that have come into my life.
Like shrieking for example. Do your goats shriek when you walk away from them? Or at 7:30 in the morning when you’re trying to milk and the neighbors are trying to sleep? Because mine do. It’s not a nice little goat “naa” it is literally good gracious have mercy someone is trying to kill that baby. And it’s loud! It actually echos.
What about throwing hay all. over. the. yard? Seriously goat do you know how much money I spent on that!
Or when you give them a new paddock because their old one is now a barren desert and instead of enjoying the new weeds and trees to munch they, instead, head butt and charge the fence trying to get back into the old one.
Or what about their love for chicken food. I can’t even turn my back on them for a second. They actually wait, all casual like “hey how are ya?” and I turn because a rooster distracts me (I swear those roosters are in on this too), and those goats take off and have about 5 and half pounds of organic chicken food (which costs a FORTUNE!) down their stupid little throats in less then a second. I know it’s about that much because my feeder only holds 11 pounds, and I am refilling it twice as often as I usually need to.
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again I hate goats. I actually do. I try to like them. I try to spoil them. I try to understand the way they think, but I just cannot stand them.
I am now starting to loath mornings. Mornings mean I have to chase chickens into two separate enclosures (because heaven forbid my Rhode Island Reds get along with the newcomers), so they can eat, then I have to lock them in so the goats don’t steal their food. Then I have to chase Phoebe and put her on a lead to take her to the milking room which is actually my screened in front porch but the mosquitoes are so bad here I would be a raisin if I milked her outside. Then she screams and flails about, kicks my bucket (I am getting faster at grabbing it out of the way thank goodness), screams some more, stomps her feet and refuses to eat. All the while Sophie and Oliver are standing in the paddock screaming at the top of their lungs (and goats have BIG lungs) because I took their Phoebe away. Oh yes and all 4 roosters pick this time to crow. Every. Morning. My neighbors are going to be coming to my door with torches and pitchforks pretty soon.
Goat I hate you. I hate the way you stick your tongue out when you scream. I hate the way you stomp your feet. I hate the way you flop down on the milk stand and I have to prop you up with a bucket, I hate the way you try to poop on me when I’m milking you. I hate the way you just will not stay out of what you know you’re supposed to stay out of, I hate the way you try to be all cute and try to climb into my lap when you know I’m considering which form of torture I want to put you through. I hate it when you come and give me goat kisses when I feed you your afternoon hay (because I’m still very much mad at you and how dare you try to be sweet), I hate the way you climb all over me like I’m some walking play toy. I especially hate it when you, Mr.Buck, try to pee on your face to look oh so handsome and end up spraying me instead. I hate you all.
It was this morning after another horrific milking experience that I think I have finally decided that my goat era is over. I have tortured myself enough. My hair was every which way pulled back in a funny bun, I was still wearing my pajama top, and my eyes were all puffy, tear stains streaking down my cheeks, nose all runny. I was a mess walking Phoebe back to the paddock. Enough is enough. I get 1 1/4 cups from Phoebe. That’s it. And it is not worth the feed, the time, the money, or my sanity. So yes I cried. I bawled like a baby while trying to get the last few precious squirts of milk out of her, and I sniffled as I walked her back. I have put a year of my life into this and more money than I want to think about.
The end result? Goats are just not for me.