This ruf­fian ru­mi­nant drove my hus­band crazy in just five days.


Keep­ing a goat has its ups and downs.

Robby and I mar­ried and moved to a farm, even though he’s not re­ally a coun­try fel­low. But he had a pos­i­tive at­ti­tude, an­nounc­ing that it was his life­long dream to have a goat. The poor guy didn’t know what he was in for.

Robby re­searched goat care for hours. Did I know they’re just like dogs—kind, lov­ing and easy to care for? That they love be­ing around peo­ple? Robby re­galed me with lists of won­der­ful things about goats while work­ing on his mas­ter­piece: the ul­ti­mate goat pen.

Then a friend called to say that if we wanted a goat, she had one that was driv­ing her crazy. Be­fore we knew it, we were stand­ing in her barn, gaz­ing at the cutest brow­nand-white goat. But when I leaned down to place a makeshift twine lead around his neck, this adorable crea­ture flew sev­eral feet straight up the wall, did a back­flip and darted to the other side of the pen. Af­ter eight laps around the pen, sev­eral runs up the wall and one full-fledged escape out­side, our lit­tle friend was leashed. He was also coated from head to hoof in mud and ma­nure and not go­ing in my back­seat. It’s a short drive, though, so I popped the trunk.

The goat han­dled a few min­utes in a large trunk like a champ.

Robby led lit­tle Pan to his pen, where the frisky crit­ter frol­icked hap­pily in his new home. On the sec­ond day, how­ever, Pan in­vented a game I call “Is It Re­ally an Es­capeProof Fence?” By day three, the score was fence 0, goat 1.

By day four, Pan had a reg­u­lar routine. Step one, escape the pen. Step two, head straight for our front door. Step three, knock. (He did this by jump­ing up, then hit­ting the door with a front hoof.) Step four, watch Robby find the hole and ham­mer a board over it. Re­peat steps one through four fre­quently.

Soon Pan was knock­ing at our door on the hour. And ev­ery time, Robby sprang forth armed with a ham­mer and board. By that night, he went to bed con­fi­dent Pan was in­deed se­curely im­pris­oned.

Af­ter wak­ing on day five to the sound of our dogs go­ing crazy, I re­turned to the bed­room laugh­ing. “Honey, your goat’s at the door.” My dis­grun­tled hus­band got up and put Pan in his pen. Be­fore he could make it back to the house, the goat was back at the front door.

That was about an hour ago. I can now hear the sounds of saw­ing and ham­mer­ing. In the mean­time, guess who’s look­ing up at me in­no­cently from our front step?

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