If You Give a Goat a Melon...

Knowing how my husband enjoys a horticultural challenge, a friend gave us several packets of seeds sent from her mother in California, where drought and watering restrictions have made gardening impractical. Since the clear plastic bags were labelled only in Chinese, we simply planted, fertilized, and waited to see what grew. From the nine varieties of seeds, three plants emerged - some bumpy white gourds, a spicy lettuce, and the largest melons we had ever seen. The melon plant quickly took over the entire garden, its vines aggressively curling out into the yard and over a wall as the fruit grew more and more enormous. I was reminded of Roald Dahl's classic "giant peach" and somewhat fearful of waking to find my house surrounded by vicious melons... When the most mammoth of them suddenly changed color and took on a chalky coating, I begged my husband to pick it before it became too heavy to lift.

Apparently similar to zucchini and meant for cooking, the melon fought us tenaciously, gripping my sharpest knife in its tough flesh and leaving my hands raw from contact with its spiky coating. I managed to hack apart some chunks to add to a simmering stew, but quickly realized this beast (with six others still growing outside) was more than I could handle. Where could I turn for help?

Fortunately, goats love Chinese cooking melons and had it gnawed down to a paper-thin rind within two days. I think I need to save some seeds and plant these again next year!

Lessons from the Goat Yard

My goats have enjoyed a rather uneventful summer. Elliot's skin pathology is, if not gone, at least dormant. The past few months have heralded only one escape (more frightening for Ellie than myself, I think, when I spotted him wandering along the road, and still no idea how he got out) and one incident of inappropriate contact with the air-conditioning technician (Emerson, and never, ever bend over in front of a goat unless you are absolutely certain the hastily-erected temporary fence will hold against his weight!) Relieved by the respite from constant goat drama, I am grateful for the lessons my goats have taught me these past three years. Take flexibility, for instance...

Several weeks ago my daughter and I were preparing a meal she had requested - herb-encrusted chicken on a bed of risotto and sauteed kale - when her phone made its peculiar chirping sound. Her eyes lit up as she read the text.

"Awesome! I've just been invited to a birthday party!"

Absently I drizzled wine over the sizzling chicken. "That's nice. What's the date?"

"Well, tonight. Six o'clock, actually." She already had her apron off, thrusting the risotto bowl at me, mid-mix. "Here, I need to get changed."

Quite a bit more wine splashed from the bottle as I spun toward the wall clock, sputtering. "Tonight?? Like, twenty-two minutes from now, that six o'clock? What about dinner?"

"Oh, it's my phone's fault. She actually texted me fourteen minutes ago; it just took forever to go through. And don't worry about dinner - it's a cookout, so I'll eat there."

Staring at a haystack of kale waiting its turn in the pan, I barely caught her voice from down the hall. "Oh, and I'll need a gift - maybe something you have hidden away, that you bought me for Christmas? Can you wrap it quick? I need to leave in five."

It's a lucky thing the goats like kale! Flexibility...This, however, was mere preparation for the following week when my other daughter arrived home from her summer camp job, dumping three months worth of luggage and laundry in the living room.  "I hope you don't mind," she announced, "but I've invited twenty-four people here for lunch tomorrow."

Maybe it was the dead silence, or my catatonic stare as she peered into the refrigerator..."Mom? Maybe we should go to the grocery store."

Oh, yeah. Either that, or we'll have to roast a goat...

In Search of the Silver Pellet

I am plagued by the question, can goats digest duct tape? -  but really it all started with Camp-Out Night. Trying to increase their appreciation for free-grazing as well as decrease the mess in the driveway, I recently left them overnight in their weedy fenced field.

Rats, Ellie, she dragged us into this prison again! Let's refuse to graze and just cry at the gate until she lets us out. I won't eat any weeds if you don't.

Lest you think me cruel, it was a warm, dry evening. How was I to know the township would set off all those frightening fireworks late in the night?

So traumatized was Emerson from this harrowing experience, the next morning during breakfast he lunged against the screen door in an attempt to be even closer to me. Don't ever make me sleep so far away from you again, Mommy!

No screen door is a match for eighty pounds of hooves and horns, and when flies began pouring in through the gaping, goat-shaped opening, generous portions of shiny silver duct tape seemed the obvious panacea, at least until my husband could make the necessary repairs that evening.

What I had not considered was that Mike's volleyball game would take priority over screen repair, and that goats relish the taste of duct tape even more than their new favorite snack (cherry tomatoes). The following morning as I stumbled for the coffee pot, I had two simultaneous thoughts: How did all these flies get in, and what is Elliot chewing on so vigorously? Then, seconds later, Hey, who took all the duct tape off the screen door? Caffeine kicked in at that moment, and as I rushed outside to pry open Ellie's mouth and retrieve the giant sticky glob, he gave a tremendous gulp and down it went, some four yards of the most indestructible substance on the planet.

Three days later, I still hover between panic and mild concern, imagining the monstrous blockage. Where could the stuff be right now? I feel for suspicious lumps; I watch him constantly. He's eating and drinking, so things are going in, and things are definitely coming out of him. He excretes mounds of raisin-like pellets all over the yard, same as always, but I'm still waiting for the pile that spills out glowing silver and slightly sticky. Where is the darn stuff?? Is it festering in his third stomach, or could he really have transformed that much duct tape into little brown pellets so effortlessly?

Maybe I have magic goats!

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...

Signs of the Times?

Imagine my surprise to see this when I went out to feed the goats yesterday - Really, boys?? Am I rattling the hay tub too much and disturbing your naps? (Yes, I did slam the gate shut extra loudly just to spite them, ungrateful animals...)

As it turns out, I didn't realize my husband was doing some free-lance sign repair for a local church, and this had been dropped off earlier for him to paint. Still...

Why Goats Don't Wear Flip Flops

If there were a scale to measure quantitative danger levels of various pets, goats would fall somewhere in the middle, midway between kittens and venomous snakes. Are you looking for a companion more adventurous than a goldfish, but are not yet ready to adopt a poison dart frog? A goat is the ideal pet for you! Most goat-related injuries are easily treated with a standard first-aid kit, minor in comparison to a frightening peril highlighted this week by a segment on my favorite morning show.

What now?, you may be wondering. Carbon monoxide? Speeding trains? Exploding airbags? No - this is a more insidious hazard, an everyday object present in nearly every American home and a far greater risk than goats - the common flip flop.

I know, you are thinking - how can this be? I wear them every day! And yet, the numbers do not lie - fully 25,000 people each year visit emergency rooms for flip flop-related injuries! Unfortunately I could not locate similar statistics for goats, but surely it is much lower...

I know, I know...it makes no sense. Flip flops, while certainly lacking in arch support, cannot butt you, bite you, or gore you with their horns. Foam footwear is unlikely to hurtle down the hill and knock you flat, and the care of flip flops does not require straining to lift heavy hay bales, wielding razor-sharp hoof trimmers or handling toxic parasectisides. Additionally, flip flops can hardly send their owners into financial ruin or mental breakdown - and yet...

Don't take chances - trade in your flip flops for goats. You can never be too careful when it comes to the safety of your family.

Front Yard Bliss

Elliot is sweet, gentle, and simple. He lacks his brother's sleek coat and devious cunning, but for all his flaws you cannot help but love him. As life goes, Elliot has fair reason to complain. A chronic skin ailment causes him intense, flesh-biting itching; he endures painful treatments and the humiliation of shorn fur. His brother, the only other goat in his world, is a nasty bully determined to deny Elliot access to hay, weeds and even human affection. Plus, sometimes it rains...

Even a few raindrops send Ellie into his Oz-like "Wicked Witch of the West" impersonation - I'm melting! I'm melting!! - and he runs for shelter with his head tucked all the way to his chest. (If I can't see the rain, it can't get me?) 

When dark clouds threatened yesterday, I rushed outside to bring the goats from their remote fenced field back to their shed. Emerson ran directly in and was under roof before the storm began, but Elliot became confused by the first raindrops and took off in the opposite direction in his peculiar "rain gait" with his head bent and eyes closed. Apparently mistaking my husband's large storage shed for his own safe haven, he flung himself repeatedly against the closed door - Why am I still getting wet? Oh, help me, help me! Let me in!

Now soaked myself as the storm intensified, I chased after him and attempted to shove him back toward the house, but an eighty-pound soggy goat is not easy to move and all I accomplished was to send him off in again the wrong direction, toward the road. Completely disoriented, he suddenly skidded, stopped, and whipped his head around - Oh, look where I am! I'm in the front yard!! (Understand, the front yard, due to traffic proximity and ornamental shrubbery, is one place the goats are never, ever allowed. They know this well.) With no concern for the pelting rain, he flung himself up in the air with a frisky sideways kick, jumping in great circles and apparently celebrating with a jubilant dance...I'm in the front yard and I even got here first and this makes me so happy!!

Fortunately the front yard has a never-used gate into the goat pen, so when I caught up to my sopping-wet, crazy-dancing Ellie, I coaxed him over - Oh look, Emerson! I'm even going through that gate we're not allowed to use! Life is so good! - and then everyone was where they needed to be and I went to find some dry clothes. It may not have improved Ellie's overall situation, but I hope the memory of that brief joyful experience got him through the rest of the torrential storm.

I know several people facing difficult situations right now - financial strain, insurmountable illness, broken relationships, heart-rending loss. Along with the strength and healing I pray them every day, let me add this - may there also be an occasional moment of "front-yard bliss," even one small happy thing, just to brighten each difficult day and help ride out life's storms.