It's possible that there is, however, a word describing the owners of such goats. Recently I had emailed a friend about picking some produce from our garden, and then I had to email her again because I forgot to mention something, and then again...and again. In the fourth email about the same topic, I apologized for cluttering her inbox, writing, "You must think I am a lunatic for sending so many messages about these tomatoes!" My friend (whose name I will not mention, in case any of her four adorable daughters read this), replied, "Oh, I already know you're a lunatic, because of the goats."
I really cannot argue with her.
Today my own daughters returned to school - somehow I got everyone out the door with the appropriate backpacks, lunches and sports equipment. With Emily away, I'm on my own now for morning bottles. Not a problem - I can easily bottle two goats at the same time - I've managed twins before, after all. When the goats saw me holding the bottles, they dashed down the deck steps, leaping sideways across the driveway in utter delight in anticipation of their favorite time of day. We sat for a while on the wooden "feeding swing" together, me, Emerson and Ellie (missing the girls already), then I hand-fed them their morning weeds, followed them back to the pen, scooped up a night's worth of nannyberries, and that was that. The house is very quiet. People ask me how long we'll keep giving them bottles, and I don't know the answer. But if anyone happens to be in the neighborhood some morning around nine, just stop by; you can feed Elliot. Maybe then you'll understand.
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