Monday, January 3, 2011

Whenever I think I want some more goats . . .

I've been thinking that I want more goats.  At least I was thinking about it until I reread this post from June 2009:





I'm a veteran of life: I've survived divorces, a huge family in a small house, countless mini emergencies, and yet this weekend something occurred that brought me as close to the edge as I've ever been.






Bucky got loose.






Now let me just say that Bucky was just being Bucky. There was no malicious intent on his part, no hidden agenda to drive me crazy so that he could reign supreme over the entire One Old Goat farm - none of that. But let's just say that at two separate times this weekend, I was brought to bawling uncontrollably in my backyard with a lasso in one hand and a bucket of sweetfeed in the other. I was prime entertainment for the Georges Valley neighbors. I am thankful, however, that the neighbors who were watching from their lawnmowers had very LOUD lawnmowers. It drowned out the stream of profanities coming out of my mouth.






Bucky has a taste for my neighbor's trees - those 100 feet tall, fast growing trees that are very, very leafy about now. When Bucky gets out of his pen, he bypasses all of my yummy maples and cottonwoods and heads for the neighbor's trees. Usually I just fill up a bucket with sweetfeed and he follows me back into his pen. Now we fixed his pen: it is impossible for me to get into or out of. But Bucky as found a way. I swear he has sprouted wings because I cannot see any spot where he has crawled under or over. I just don't know. So Saturday he got out. We just noticed seconds before leaving for my daughter's soccer game. And of course my husband wasn't home. And of course I had the neighbor's kids with me. And of course Bucky had great fun waiting for me to get within inches of him before darting off over the horse fence. Around and around me, all four of the kids, the dogs, and the chickens (who didn't know what the hell was going on) running through the horse pen. I think it was on lap 8 that I finally broke down in tears. At that point, everything comes to a standstill (except for Bucky who is walking slowly towards me). EVERYONE is staring at me: the kids, dogs, horses were chewing on their hay looking at me, Dolly was inches away shiffing my hair. The two boys - my son and his friend - offered ideas (which included knives and catapults) and the girls were stunned by my hysterics. So I shifted gears and we all left for the soccer game (hoping that Bucky would run away). He didn't. But my husband was able to lure Bucky into the pen.






Next day. My parents were visiting and we were having a party for the kids' birthday. My parents arrived and Bucky escaped. Again. And headed straight for the neighbor's trees. I felt myself crumbling. I found my rope and casually strolled toward Bucky as he was busily munching on leaves. He took off as the rope was poised above his head. This time I broke down after only 1 lap through the horse pen. Crying uncontrollably that I could not deal with this *%*!# goat again. In front of my father! I've never let this kindof word slip in front of my dad. Mom, yes. But not my dad.

He knew I was upset.


So my dearest daughter, mother of my grandson, great lasso-er of goats, came to the rescue and within minutes, had Bucky roped and tied in the barn. I love that girl.


So what am I going to do? For now, Bucky is on leash with plenty of access to outside and shelter, food and drink. My mother called me last night and said that my brother had offered to 'take care of' Bucky. But unless he is going to be eaten, he's not going to be killed. I've tried selling Bucky and giving him away. I've worked on his fence until my arms and legs bled. He's getting out somewhere but I don't know where.


Everyone told me not to get a goat. I didn't listen. So now I hate Bucky for him being what he is. Although now, a day later, I can't say that I really hate him. Bucky is a goat-a male goat. And he is acting like one. I guess I should love him because he is really, really, REALLY good at being a goat. 

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