I reached for the alarm, missed the snooze, and debated whether to try harder.
I was warm and snug in bed; I hadn’t started the daily hurts yet. I told myself I didn’t have to get up so early. I could work later, or harder.
The excuses were a dime a dozen as I felt the warm nose nuzzle between my shoulder blades. All the more reason to stay in bed a little longer — obviously my bride was trying to snuggle.
I felt something playing with my hair, then a delicate, but persistent yank.
The baby goat had awakened.
Magnum came to live with us a couple weeks back. He’s still too small to integrate into our current flock, so he’s a house goat. Which means he’s an everywhere goat — everywhere as in the shower, the bathroom, visits to the in-laws, shopping, church and yes, our bed.
I confess: we have a goat in our bed. A small goat, one who hasn’t yet begun smelling like a goat, but a goat, nonetheless.
We’ve had house goats before. My first goats wandered in and out at will, occasionally watching television, hiding in the bathtub, and helping themselves to snacks or even meals on the kitchen counter, but I was a bachelor then and the statute of limitations has expired. When Miss Rhonda and I adopted Bucky, he was all of six hours old, and it was bitterly cold, so he had to stay inside.
Bucky had a kennel, which was his bed until he and Sally destroyed it and moved outside. Sally was another bummer lamb, abandoned by her mom, but Sally was and is a survivor. She was sneaking in to nurse on other nanny goats, stealing a meal like an orphan stealing bread in a Charles Dickens story. Since every goat needs a goat, Sally seemed a natural addition, at least until Bucky turned into Goatzilla. Somehow his Boer ancestry completely overpowered his Nigerian dwarf side, and we ended up with a romping, stomping, hundred-pound demon stud.
We became Goat People.
Our handy-dandy goat book lied about when Sally would be old enough to produce more goats, so we ended up with Zechariah. He was so named because when he was born, Rhonda was so surprised she was briefly struck mute like the prophet in the temple.
Thankfully, Z is more like his mother, smallish and sweet, than his apocalyptic father. So our goat who needed a goat got together with his goat and had another goat.
Then they had more goats.
About a year after Z was born, Annie and Honey joined us. Zechariah now has sisters. Since Goat People are required to name their goats silly, related names, like Chocolate and Strawberry, Venus and Aphrodite, Spot and Dot, etc., the girls were named for the actress Anne Francis and her famous character, Honey West. I wanted to call them Liver and Onions, or maybe Barbecue and Stir Fry, but I was overruled.
We had debated and discussed exactly how big of a herd we wanted, and more or less settled on six or so. Six would mean a reasonable flock of lawnmowers, clearing brush for the new pasture, and producing milk that could be turned into cheese.
Their pen is laid out in such a way that when they finish turning and fertilizing the earth, the fence could be easily moved, and a rich garden plot laid in. the plans call for chickens roaming back and forth to help reduce the number of unwelcome pests, and everyone all the healthier for eating home-grown, organic, heritage vegetables.
At least, that’s how it is in an ideal world where sustainable farming is as pleasant and picturesque as the photos published in magazines by people who couldn’t make it as sustainable farmers.
Between having to recover Bucky from the neighbors at 6 a.m. on New Year’s Day, and Rhonda getting into a standoff with a van load of goat rustlers who happened by while Bucky was roaming the neighborhood, we needed a stronger pen. We didn’t plan on adding to the flock until a larger, more secure enclosure was created.
But Magnum needed a home, so he came to live with us.
And I mean really live with us.
The most common words spoken by Goat People are “Don’t eat that!” and “Are you peeing again?” Not to dwell on such things, but you might be surprised how much a goat can urinate in one day, or even one sitting. And unlike hogs and possums, they don’t house train.
Miss Rhonda had to run some errands the other day, so Magnum came to work with me. Zechariah had done so last year, as had Bucky before he became huge and possessed by a demon of destruction. I fully expected some adventures, but since Mag is small, they wouldn’t be epic adventures. There was even a chance it would be just another day at the office.
The entire world changed.
Everyone wanted to cuddle Magnum. Everyone wanted to play with Magnum. Everyone who came in stopped in their tracks to make friends with the bleating, smiling, wire-chewing, paper-shredding Magnum.
We’re usually a happy crowd, but Magnum just seemed to further improve morale. He may not have done anything for people’s work ethics, but everyone was too happy to care very much (me included, since he is a cute little booger).
I have decided that there should be a National Take Your Goat to Work Day. Heck, if we can take children, dogs, cats, birds, and lizards (yes, there’s a Take Your Lizard to Work Day) then why not goats?
I have friends who like to come and just watch our goats, or mess with them. Goats can bring a sense of peace (when they aren’t eating telephone cords or attacking the neighbor’s flowers). I would be willing to bet the whole mess in the Ukraine right now could be solved if somebody dropped Putin and the Ukranian president in a room full of baby goats.
Stuffy, tense executive board meeting? Baby goats.
Tax audit? Baby goats.
Budget meeting? Baby goats.
Congressional hearings? Baby goats.
I’m not saying baby goats can solve all the world’s problems, but let’s face it. There’s a lot to be said for the policy that anything which can’t be eaten or played on should be head-butted and left alone. Nothing improves a bad day like unabashed, hedonistic happiness in a cute little package of weed-eating, bleating madness that nibbles your hair in the night.
