Beware the Howlers...

Recently we were privileged to host several international visitors in our home, and as always the goats were delighted to meet new people. Most of our guests had some experience with goats, although not in the "useless, money-sucking pet" category which best describes Emerson and Elliot. Stroking Ellie's back, one woman confided that she had received a goat for her sixteenth birthday, many years ago.

"What a wonderful gift!" I beamed. "How long did you have your goat?"

"Oh, about three days," she answered, "until we ate him at my party."

Cover your ears, goatboys!!

Bizarre as goats may be, however, they are far from the strangest creatures we could have chosen. Sipping coffee on the deck one morning as we watched the goats chase each other, one of our guests turned to me. "And you also raise howler monkeys?"

"What??" I sputtered, spewing coffee on the railing. "Howler monkeys? Of course not! Why would you even think that?" (Like goats aren't enough insanity, perish the thought that we might want our trees inhabited by gangs of four-foot long swinging monkeys who apparently drop fruit on people's heads...Plus, aren't they only found in South America?)

"I've heard them here several times," he insisted. "It's a very distinctive sound."

Well, yes, as I do recall from a grade-school science project, the loud gutteral cry of the Howlers can travel for miles - "Maybe you're hearing the turkeys across the field?"

No, he said, definitely Howlers. His wife agreed, having recognized their call numerous times overnight. Alarmed, I looked at their three children, who all nodded solemnly. Howlers. After all, this family lives in Mexico; they must know...my mind raced.

How did the monkeys get here? Aren't they found only in rain forests? Who do I call for a howler monkey infestation? Are they harmful to goats?


"There!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Did you hear that?" Eagerly his family concurred, but I had missed it. Frustrated, I asked them to listen again, explaining that I had been distracted by the whining sound of a car driving over the rusted metal bridge at the edge of our property. Only when they again identified the monkey's cry just as another car passed did we realize, this decrepit bridge, already slated for replacement, mimics exactly the call of an indigenous jungle monkey. All these years of living here, and I never knew. The new bridge will be concrete, wider and safer, but suddenly I feel a little sad...

Oh well, at least I still have my goats...