Our Five Minutes of Goat Ownership

The Bessettes are going on their first vacation as a whole family in three years. We went over today to get directions on how to care for their animals and land. There is a list, but it is not too difficult. I learned how to use their milking machine, and milked their goat, the one animal producing milk. Fun!

When we returned to our homestead, Phil calculated what materials we would need to fence in the goats we found on Craigslist. [Now the remainder of the brackets is convoluted and probably not very interesting. What’s funny is that the goats were Michelle’s, and she sold them recently to her friend Barb. Barb had owned goats before (Barb had also been the one to talk to Michelle about homeschooling, many years back). So Barb owned goats, and Michelle bought Barb’s goats. Then Barb had a stroke (probably in her late 40s or early 50s) and didn’t have goats. Recently she bought back some of Michelle’s goats, but decided not to keep them. So I found her note on Craigslist and contacted her, so now I will have Michelle’s goats, from the original owner of the line. Phew!]

Phil had opted against ordering goat netting, figuring that wires would be more versatile, as we can use them for both goats and pigs. After running to a couple of stores to find various supplies (most of which were not available), He spent some time (probably a couple of hours) setting up the three strands of solar powered electric fencing. And, yes, the solar provided the 10,000 Volts of electric shock. (We tested with the tester.) Neighbor Butch came by with some hay for the goats (what a great neighbor! He charged us $15 a bale for the large hay bales, “because it was the first cutting and got too long”). Butch also offered to bring us some spoiled hay for mulching our driveway, so the sides would not continue to erode as they did last night. He brought us several bales, and some home grown tomatoes.

Then we were off to get the goats. Their pen was ready, their food was ready, their five gallon bucket of water was ready, and we were excited.

We talked to Barb for a long time in the hot sun, and then Phil and I went to catch the goats. Having caught chickens last year, I wasn’t expecting it to be easy, and it wasn’t. Goats can be a bit stubborn, and we are not natural husbandmen, I’m afraid. But in time we caught the goats and loaded them securely in the back of the truck (Phil’s genius with knots comes in handy almost daily).

We have an old mother, Chrystal, a purebred Alpine about eight years old, and perhaps too old to kid again (but we might try anyway—Michelle thinks that would be fine), and her purebred daughter, who we named Annabelle, a doeling who is ready to be bred. They are both Alpines, which are like the Holsteins of the goat world. (For the record: Jersey cows produce the most butterfat, and their goat equivalent is the Nubian. Holsteins produce the largest quantity of milk, and are usually used in commercial cow dairies.) This line of goats has produced up to two gallons a day, which is unheard of. A gallon a day is supposed to be really good.

If you think of a goat as about 150 pounds, a goat that produces about 16 pounds of milk a day is really producing!

You know, everywhere we’ve gone that has goats, the owners use grain as a treat, a bribe, a method of getting goats to go where you want. I had the passing thought on the way home that we didn’t have any grain at our house.

I hoped their favorite delicacy, poison ivy, would be enough of a treat for them.

They entered the pen willingly enough. They have cute helicopter ears and lovely brown and white markings; Annabelle has a white star on her side. Annabelle was zapped almost immediately, and jerked away from the fence. They were learning their boundaries!

Until about three minutes later they figured out how to get through. Once the head was through, their body followed quickly enough that it was not hurt badly. Zip zip! All gone! They ambled straight up the hill for the road.

Jonadab had woken in his carseat, so I went to get him on my back before gathering the recalcitrant goats. That was my big mistake. I should not have waited to pursue them, because when they reached the road, they didn’t stay on the road. And there are no boundary fences anywhere near us—the world is their oyster, and they were gone. Vanished. Silent.

How embarrassing! Five minutes of goat ownership, and we lost our charges!

And, perhaps you didn’t know, goats are related to deer. Deer are spotted and blend in well with their surroundings. Goats are striped and blend in well with their surroundings. And goats lie down to chew their cud, and fold themselves into impossibly small spaces. I quickly realized that, if they didn’t want to be found, they would not be found.

Would they come back on their own? Hmm. We had no corn to entice them, no good memories to draw them (“Hey, remember that great farm where we got zinged a few times with an electric fence? I bet they really like us! Let’s go back!”), no companionship to offer them (since mother and daughter were together already). And they’re related to deer. Deer aren’t known for their fond affection toward man. (I think there may be a nasty book called The Yearling, in which a boy befriends a fawn and then his Dad makes him kill it after a year “because the world is a tough place, son, and you’d better learn to deal with it now.” “Right! Thanks, Dad, for raising me so well!” Ugh.)

What to do? Well, tired, hot, and disappointed, we went to the Bessettes for a swim. I was pleased that at least I’d have something interested to write about. I confess I was so mad, I didn’t even want the goats anymore. Fruit trees don’t run away from you! They don’t poop all over your truck! They don’t frustrate your husband! And then I was sad that I was such a bad owner. What about the good shepherd who goes searching for the one lost sheep?

Yes, even the goat loss I could turn into a spiritual failure.

After a swim and a meal, it was dusk, and I was tired. I was starting to feel the three hours of interrupted sleep the night before, and really just wanted to go home. No goats when we got home. But when I made my best “MAAAAA” sound, I heard an answer! Praise God! Isaiah and I set out to search, while Phil put up a tether.

I have the previously unused gift of being able to bleat like a goat. It’s quite convincing. And the goats enthusiastically responded to me—until I was sure I was within about 50 feet of them. Then they hushed. Now goats are not grazers like cows and sheep—they prefer to eat brush, and they prefer to eat from above their head, rather than below. So their ideal feed lot would be a dense, brushy area. What is my least favorite place to walk? (Well, really, probably the Florida Everglades, which are swampy and have crocodiles and stuff, but besides that,) I really don’t like pushing through tick-infested brambles and closely spaced bushes. Every step is fight, and visibility stinks.

But by crouching low and pushing gently through some saplings, I dead reckoned where I had last heard the bleat, and there was a goat right in front of me! Glory! It took me a minute and a half before I realized that the second goat was about five steps behind the first. The dusk was that thick, and the goats blend in that well.

Phil caught up to us with some rope (which I had set off without). He pulled Annabelle, despite her desire to toss him with her horns. Where Annabelle went, mama Chrystal went, trailing slowly. Oh, that Annabelle! She might have been a mule, she was so stubborn! Phil even resorted to carrying her at times; physically, it was about the same amount of effort as pulling, and it went a lot faster.

By the time we had returned them the 1500 feet they had run away (yes, that is how ridiculously close they were), it was basically dark. There was no way I wanted to tether these goats for the first time in the dark. Goats aren’t usually supposed to be tethered to begin with, since they strangle easily. (Indeed, the slipknot almost strangled Annabelle when we first put it on her.) So we loaded them—again—into the truck and went to the Bessettes—again—and put them in with the other goats.

What a relief! And what a day. And what a blessing that our goat ownership will get to extend a bit longer.

Oh, and a note on the name Annabelle. The Bessettes name their animals in alphabetical order by year. So the first year, all the animals were As; the second year, all Bs. That way, they can easily count backward to see how old an animal is. We thought that was pretty smart.