My Evil Goats
First, I swear to a Mennonite God that every word of this is true. You cannot make this shit up.
Deliciousness in a glass
I was throwing a birthday party for Kate’s 40th birthday party and was amazed to find myself so prepared that I had a blissful 30 minutes all to myself before packing the cooler and dashing out the door. This is super rare, as I’m the last second girl, frantically tossing stuff and running, always missing some crucial piece of the pie. But I was mostly good to go and hit the couch in full Saturday bliss, pouring myself a delicious, not quite cold Left Hand Milk Stout, admiring the logo of the cow being groped, congratulating myself on getting my dairy for the day-when a large black goat wandered into my vision.
Now, this might be usual if I lived in the pastoral countryside. However, I live in the City of Atlanta, on a super busy road. Stray dogs and stray crackheads are the norm for my viewing pleasure.
No sooner had I determined that this was actually a goat and not a dog, there were two. Then three. Then four. A vertible goatherd. Yodel lay yodel lay yodel lay hee who. (I did not yodel at the time, but now that I have that in my head, I cannot seem to stop yodeling.)
Me: Is that a goat? My eyes are going bad, right? It’s a weird looking dog in any case.
Kate: It has to be a dog, but I can see why you’d think it’s a goat.
Me: Well why would you say that you can see why I would think it’s a goat, if it’s not a goat?
Kate: It’s goatlike. And now there are a bunch of them. What’s going on? This is weird. Where are you going?
Me: To save the goats of course.
Because I can’t allow nibbling goats to lie. Or to get made into goat pizza in the road.
I sprint to the goats and just as I arrive, another guy does as well and we evaluate the situation. I see immediately that the goats have collars and dog tags and pull out my phone and photograph the goats, because no one is going to believe this without photographic evidence. The passerby named James explains that he’s “from the country” and “no stranger to livestock” and will help me rescue the goats.
Inadvertent Goatherd
Despite his background, it occurs to me that he’s looking to me for goat expertise, oddly enough. So I take the lead.
I dial the number on the tags and I get a guy named John on the phone. I learn that the goats have liberated themselves from the Mennonite Church/Farm around the corner, likely because of a fallen tree in that screechy storm that ripped through the other night.
That storm turned my pine trees and bent them nearly in half, smacking my house, scaring my dogs (and me) and later made my dog pee all over the rug by the door, but that’s another story. Anyway, the goat owner that I am speaking to is the pastor/farmer.
Did I mention that I live inside the City of Atlanta? And did I mention that this urban farm is right around the corner from me? Did I mention that yesterday I was in a parking garage rescuing kittens? I clearly have a problem.
John is all kinds of chatty and so I am, which is not good for the goats or the schoolyard that they are currently devouring. Well, not the yard, so much as the once lovely shubberies. John the Goat Keeper/Pastor is in South Carolina doing some kind of Mennonite religious field trip and I am the appointed Savior of the Goats. John has a direct line to God and all, with his pastoring duties, and I am blessed several times.
So, while John is getting all complimentary about my stone house, that is currently sporting multi-colored shutters, as I work through my color options and how his wife is DYING to see the inside, I politely tell him that I need a quick lesson on how to herd goats and that I’m bent at the waist, holding on to a goat collar whilst it bleats loudly, fakes at biting me, and coughs horribly because I’m not letting the little fucker go.
I later learn that I’m holding a goat named “Satan.”
I’m instructed to spot the largest goat, sans collar, grab him by his large curled horns and drag him home, which is approximately a half a mile away. This goat is large and likely weighs 100 lbs. And “Nibbles,” an odd choice for a leader (although super appropriate because apparently all goats wanna do is eat everything they see), even a leader goat, is not a likely participant in being led anywhere, when there are such delicacies to be eaten in the free world.
Dragging Nibbles is one of the most serious workouts ever. Gyms, in fact, should employ large goats and have clients drag them up hills and over dales by their horns. They are stubborn and they will just lock down, pushing all of their bulk back on their hauches and it takes vast effort to get any forward motion out of a goat.
Let me pause to reflect on the lessons of goatherding:
Lesson #1: Take the goat by the horns. I am not lying, people.
Lesson #2: Goats have sharp little hooves and will FUCK UP your pedicure.
Lesson #3: Because of Lesson #2, reconsider herding goats in flip-flops.
Lesson #4: Goat horns will give you calluses.
Lesson #5: Dragging a 100 pound goat, named Nibbles is a bitch. But likely great for your quads.
Lesson #6: If a Mennonite pastor names a goat “Satan,” he is not fucking around.
Lesson #7: If you make your arms big like you’re an angry swan and you flap around a lot, it will terrify a small herd of goats and they will made a short dash in the direction you wish before they spot a delicious gardenia bush and set upon it like locusts.
Lesson #8: Unplanned goat-herding is not good for relationships, especially if you’re throwing your partner a very big deal 40th birthday bash.
Lesson #9: If you hoped to go somewhere socially after herding goat, you will smell like a goat. This is especially true if you live in a city with 1000 percent humidity and have to drag a completely unwilling fat-ass goat a half a mile.
Lesson #10: Don’t trust your goat herding volunteer assistant if he tells you he knows how to herd goats. Letting go of Nibbles, on a sidewalk, on a crazy busy road because you’re tired is NOT a solution, Einstein. Your entire herd will think its fine to attack the nearest home’s shrubbery. Then, you’ll have to sprint to recapture the horns of Nibbles and drag him through someone’s lawn, leaving a path of hoof-traction in your wake.
Lesson #11: Herding goats in an urban setting will make you a ton of friends with the people driving by. In fact, it nearly causes accidents and whiplash. One motorcyclist screamed “AWESOME!” as he tore by on his Harley.
Lesson #12: Satan is very tough to catch. In fact, it takes a cooperative effort to put Satan in a chicken coop.
When my inept assistant and I finally made it to the farm, we flapped our fake swan wings and herded the goats back to what seemed to be their pen. We checked the fence and blocked off some areas with large rocks and we felt pretty good about the state of things, when Nibbles made a cleverly planned dash for the half open gate and got through it. Luckily, I was no novice goat herder anymore and quickly recaptured him and put him, bleating his woes to the world, back into the enclosure. We goatherds high fived and shook hands and left walking back to our respective homes.
On my walk, I pulled out my phone and called John the Pastor to trumpet my victory. He sighed heavily and told me that Satan could easily scale the 6 foot fence and be out in no time. He said that it would be better if the goats were in the chicken coop in front of the open field. My goatherding was incomplete and I vowed to return and makes things right as John was still hours from returning to Atlanta.
Unfortunately, now I’m late, back at the house, and drenched in sweat. Kate is waiting for me at the door with a look that can only be described as “Are you fucking serious?” I apologize briefly, get changed, wash my goaty hands and then return downstairs to break the bad news: I need to stop back by the farm to transfer the goat herd from the field to the coop.
The mood is tense as we load her convertible with party coolers, uncooked chicken, and other sundries. She reluctantly drives me back to the field and I call the goats, who actually come running immediately from parts unknown. I manage to shoo, drag, and herd everyone into the chicken coop, except for Satan. Satan makes a break at the last minute and dashes back into the half acre field, baaaing and bleating and sounds generally miserable. I realize that goatherding assistants, even inept ones, are absolutely essential. And I cannot ask Kate to do any goatherding before her party.
Kate watches me chase Satan around the barnyard for 5 minutes and finally realizes if we are to get this party on the road, I’m going to need some help. She emerges from the car and together, we quickly corner Satan and put him in the chicken coop with the rest of the herd. In silence, we head to the party where NO ONE believes the reason that we are late.
When they finally believe why we are late, they wonder why we brought chicken to grill and not goat.
