Have I ever told you that I hate goats?
We have a Boer doeling, which is a South African kind of meat goat. Boer is Dutch for something … probably Ruiner of Joy. We initially got Little Goat as a companion for Rose, but now she has turned into a real … how do you say jackass in Dutch? Sometimes I use other words to describe her. Molly once referred to Little Goat as a shithead. Molly catches on fast.
We have always had to lock Little Goat up in her pen during milkings. When she sees Rose or Patty up on the milk stand, she cannot control her primal urge to be up there with them. So she jumps the fence and, at times, takes the shock like a champ. But most of the time nary a hoof touches the strands. She is a very fat goat and somehow the most graceful leaper. She looks like an albino potbellied deer when she is clearing that thing. There is just no way she can actually jump that high. It must be some kind of illusion.
Our fence is 35 inches tall, so we ordered the 42-inch version designed for “flighty” goats.
This evening we took advantage of the 77-degree weather to install our new flighty-proof fence, and Little Goat gleefully stepped up to the challenge.
Her eyes rolled back in her head with delight as she took a 100-foot running start and cleared her meaty carcass over the electrified hurdle long-jump style. No extremities were shocked in the clearing of the new fence. She nailed the uphill landing, as well.
Then, naturally, she ran right up to the milk stand and knocked over about a gallon of fresh-squeezed milk that was destined for the bellies of my hungry piggies.
Because, obvi, you can’t just escape. You need to make the most of it by destroying something I’ve worked for, too.
Goats are the devil.
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