Goats are becoming increasingly popular as a good livestock choice for small-scale homesteaders. Depending on the breed, they can provide milk, meat, or fiber, and since they reproduce relatively quickly and often have two, three, or even four kids at a time, they’re pretty cost-effective. They’re also hilarious. And annoying. And I miss them.
Goats are escape artists. They like to help prune trees and weed gardens, but unfortunately, they don’t know when to stop. They love nothing better than getting themselves into impossible situations and then standing there and screaming until someone arrives to rescue them. Then they repeat the process multiple times. Basically, they’re troublesome and infuriating. Do not get goats. Ever.
Or, go get a goat. Or two. Because they’re fantastic. I’m serious.
We bought our first goats around the time I was in fifth grade. I thought they were beautiful: a big, brown, Nubian nanny with white dapples and ragged horns, and a rough-coated, calico, crazy-eyed billy. Josephine and Napolean.
I remember that I got to skip part of a school day for the arrival of the imperial couple. The note my mom wrote for me said that I needed to be home to receive some livestock, and I remember feeling very grown up when I handed that note in at the school office. That’s right, ladies, I’m a genuine farmer, and I have livestock to receive.
We wanted the goats to clean out an area of woods at the back of the property, and they were definitely up for the challenge. Within a couple of weeks, the place looked like a park. They started with the poison ivy, which is apparently like candy to them, and then they moved on to the privet, ivy, and who knows what else.
Their willingness to eat just about anything can backfire, of course, sometimes with serious consequences. Josephine found a tiny shrub of mountain laurel which had apparently washed down from the state park upstream and taken root in a cleft of the creek bank. It can be deadly, but being a goat, she scarfed some of it down.
She then spent the next week convalescing in a cozy nest of blankets in our basement, being fed hot oatmeal and hay. I’m pretty sure that she was actually feeling better several days before she showed it.
Her first kid (in her life with us, at least) was born on a Sunday afternoon, in the yard between the pool and the creek. We were having a picnic on the pool deck, so we had front row seats for the delivery, the efforts at standing, and the first, faltering steps. We promptly named the baby Billy the Kid and took about as many photos of him as normal people take of human babies.
There were other goats and other kids over the years, of course. Some were easy keepers, and some seemed determined to wreak as much havoc as possible. Some of the nannies were good mothers, but several weren’t, which meant that we ended up bottle-raising their kids in diapers in the house. There was nothing funnier than the look on a visitor’s face when a diaper-clad baby goat moseyed into the kitchen.
You cannot watch a baby goat (or better yet, a pair of baby goats) frisking around in the grass and not smile. It’s biologically impossible. They run and leap and twist and bounce and climb and play king of the mountain and are just generally adorable. And then, exhausted, they tuck themselves in close beside their mama and sleep. This probably explains why the tops of their heads smell like sunshine and fresh grass.
We sold our last two goats a few years ago after months of trying and failing to keep them in the pasture. They went over, under, or through every fence we put in front of them, and they usually ended up in the garden. They went to a great home with a man we’ve known for years. and at the time, we were relieved to be rid of them. But now somehow we find ourselves talking about when we can get more.
Gluttons for punishment? Maybe. Better than being gluttons for mountain laurel.