Last night was what the weatherman calls "unseasonably cold." With snow on the ground, the temperature was a bone-chilling 19 degrees F and falling. Concerned about the goats, I bundled up in coat, hat, mittens and boots to check on them. Would they be able to keep warm enough overnight in their shed? I think my husband has a heat lamp somewhere in the garage...
Teeth chattering, I peeked into their shed. Empty. Again, I panicked - would I find them stiff and frozen in the yard, unable to make it to shelter? If we brought them in the house to thaw them out, whose bed would I volunteer? Goats, where are you?
Right. Out behind the shed, sound asleep on the picnic table. I woke them up and lured them into the shed with fresh hay and hot water, making sure to turn on the night light and fluff up their sleeping mats. Catastrophe averted. Sleep well, stay warm, goaties!
This morning, as usual, I looked out my window to see if the goats had woken up yet. Emerson was walking around the yard, but Elliot was still asleep - curled up in a ball on top of the wooden box in the driveway. Rushing outside to investigate, I found two clues which told me he had been there all night - first, the mound of frozen droppings under his tail, and second, the fact that just like everything else outside, he was coated in a layer of frost.
I give up!
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