Acronyms for Goats

Today my daughters took their high school final exam in English - that glorious study of not only poetry and literature but also such fascinations as personification, oxymorons, alliteration, symbolism, paradox and iambic pentameter. You may wonder the value of knowing that "zeugma" refers to when one word modifies multiple words with different meanings, as in "He was deep in thought and debt." (Right, deep is the zeugma in this quote from poet Alexander Pope.) Let me expound...

Even goats can benefit from a basic knowledge of literary terms. In our family, an acronym commonly used is "L.O.P." (not to be confused with "L.P.") - generally delivered in an exasperated shout and meaning "loss of privileges." For example, if Em and Ellie are taken on a walk to a non-fenced field and suddenly bolt toward the road, I might scream "Goats!! L.O.P!!" as I chase them back to their pen. Or if Emerson has chewed all the rubber edges from his comfy sleeping mat, I sternly chastise him with "L.O.P!" as I yank the mat away and leave him on the hard concrete. Loss of privileges can occur when someone knocks over the entire treat bucket because he is too impatient to wait his turn, or when two naughty goats dash into the garage if the door was left open, or when a mean rascal head-butts his brother to the point of drawing blood in order to get all the good weeds.

We are more like goats than we may dare admit, as humans also experience L.O.P. For misbehavior such as speeding or inappropriate texting, you can lose your driver's license; non-payment of bills results in the loss of phone service or electricity. Your library card is dependent on prompt return of books and fee-free banking requires a minimum balance.

So why can't my goats behave? Poor Elliot (rarely the culprit) is so confused. Each time I yell at his skunky, malicious brother, "L.O.P.!!!" - sweet Elliot immediately stops and empties his bladder. We finally figured it out. Affectionate as he is, Ellie is just a bit daft, and I believe what he hears instead of "L.O.P." is "Ellie, go pee!" (Go ahead, say it out loud.)

What a good goat I have! 

Initials for Short

We have acquaintances whose youngest daughter has always been called "L.P." As her older siblings all have ordinary names, I once asked what the letters stood for. Her response was enlightening. Although she has a given first and middle name (unknown to most people and neither starting with "L" or "P"), her nickname stands for "Last Pregnancy." Apparently her parents decided early that they needed a constant reminder that four children was enough. Still the baby of the family, L.P. is now in college, so I guess it was an effective plan.

Infants can be so adorable; the temptation is enormous. I have a well-meaning aunt who frequently sends me photos and videos of frisky baby goats, sweet things frolicking in the sun or looking at me with luminous brown eyes - and yes, I want a baby goat. I want to hold it on my lap and nudge a bottle into that tiny mouth and wipe the milky drips from a downy chin...to let it fall asleep in my arms as we rock on the swing in the sunshine. I think I know a breeder who still has a few available...

First, though, I have to finish a little cleaning outside. Overnight Emerson and Elliot had what we now call a "newspaper party," where they pry apart the mats in their shed and then shred the insulating paper all over the yard. There are huge piles of droppings to sweep off the deck, and I noticed someone has started eating roof shingles again. (I'm not sure how they were still hungry after getting into all the strawberry plants!)

Let me introduce you to the culprits - L.G. #1 and L.G. #2.

 I hope it works!

The Fence Attempt - Take 5 (by Emerson, Guest Blogger)

Let's review the plan one more time, Ellie, just in case she tries to put us in that awful fence again. Pay attention! She'll drag you in first like always - put up just enough fuss to wear her out. Meanwhile, I'll take off across the field. When she finally catches me, I'll whine and tug against the leash while she drags me up the hill, then thrash into the ground and make choking sounds from my way-too-tight collar. You pretend to be grazing contentedly, but when she opens the gate to shove me in, you rush over and escape. Imprisoned, I'll hurl my body against the gate while she chases after you, and when she catches you again, wrap your leash around her foot so she ends up inside the fence with us. By that time she'll be so out of breath she'll just sit down and pull out that book she keeps in her backpack with our emergency snacks.

Listen up! While she reads in the fence with us, we'll fill our bellies and lure her into a false sense of security as she slowly inches toward the gate. Notice anything, brother? Me neither; I'm just happily eating these weeds over here... When she makes her move, we'll be on that gate like a flash - did she honestly think we would let her out? Hot and thirsty (and strangely unwilling to drink from our water bucket), she'll just give up. Victory is ours! Freedom! And it's a race to the deck - who will get there first? Will it be Super-Ellie, Speedy Skunk, or the Stupid Slow Human? Hurry it up - we need some animal crackers here!

Phase Two is all me, Ellie. You're too transparent. Can't you see it now? And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to...Emerson! This is where I act so traumatized by the experience that I can't settle down. I do the whole panting, tongue-lolling, wide-eyed quivering thing (goat-on-the-verge-of-a-heart-attack-all-the-fault-of-a-mean-horrible-human) so convincing that she panics and sits on my bench next to me and sings my favorite lullaby until I fall asleep.

I could get used to this...I wonder if we're doing the fence-thing tomorrow?

Delicious - or Dreadful?

A child of the sixties, I grew up in the era of Dr. Benjamin Spock and "tough love" and letting babies cry themselves to sleep. Though I have no memories of my earliest years, I am told that I suffered a severe separation anxiety and fear of being alone in my room at night, often climbing out of my crib to lie wailing on the floor with my tiny fingers (palms up) scrabbling under the door frame, frantically trying to pry the door from the hinges. Such was my terror of being locked in my room all alone.

I know how Emerson feels.

A few months ago we invested significant time and money in fencing our side field for the goats, providing them with a wonderful weedy grazing area much larger than their fenced yard next to the house. Here, we reasoned, they could safely forage for hours on wild grasses, thornbushes and poison ivy - all the things goats love. We call it "The Delicious Field" (because they used to love grazing there).They call it "Prison," "Little Corner of Hell," or "No-Way, No-How Are You Getting Us Through That Gate!" They were content when I sat in with them, but since they realized the field is a place where they are left alone, they now equate it with the terror of abandonment. Emerson refuses to eat out there, instead running in giant frantic circles, crying and throwing his body against the fence.

Yesterday I was determined to put them in the field. It was a warm day and I was just too busy to stand and watch them graze along the outside of the fence (their usual practice, cleverly staying far from the gate). I assembled all the required tools - collars, leashes, animal crackers, pods, Emily (home from school for the morning). With substantial bribery I half-dragged, half-lured Elliot through the gate, where he gave a peremptory fuss but then wandered off to forage, resigned to his fate. Emerson was fighting Emily with everything he had, but the two of us finally overpowered him, heaved him into a wagon and maneuvered him inside the fence.

Only one problem - I was locked in with them...

After about ten minutes Emily was able to lure Emerson away from the gate with a handful of pods, but as I tried to sneak out I glimpsed a flash of black fur and there he was, tearing toward the house at roughly twice the speed of light. Blasted goat! I found him cowering on the deck, shaking and panting, perhaps hoping I wouldn't find him. We sat together on the deck as he slowly relaxed and laid his head on my knee. This is the goat who stands on a bench outside the kitchen window and watches me wash dishes. Don't try to leave me out there ever again, Mommy. I just want to be where you are...