I don’t know why Daddy kept goats. In theory, they’d eat brush and he’d have one to barbecue on Memorial Day, Fourth of July, or Labor Day. The fact is, our goats didn’t ascribe to the brush eating theory and were born knowing their life’s purpose was to get their heads stuck in fences, climb on everything and make passionate love. It was clear to the dumbest of them that flowers, grass, garden vegetables, laundry on the line, and almost anything else was better than brush. Only a starving goat would eat poison ivy or bitter weed if anything else is available. I had plenty of experience with goats. Our fences were intended to keep cows and horses in. Goats easily slipped their heads through the wire since they were the philosophical type who believed “the grass is greener on the other side. The problem arose when they tried to remove their horned heads and were stuck fast. In our occupation of unpaid farm hands, my brother and I had to walk the fences to extricate stuck goats. A couple of hazards were manifest. The goats were never appreciative. While we worked to get them loose, they tried to flee, most often smashing our hands against the wire. The second major problem involved randy Billy Goats who thoroughly understood the nannies were in that particular situation for romantic purposes. Resentful Billy Goats can be quite vindictive. If goat testosterone could be marketed, I’d invest.
More to come