What do you see when you look at this picture? You probably see cuteness, adorable baby goat. Some of you may even think that this is exactly what you need. And shopping through the ads on craigslist you can find many cute and sweet goat kids- just the thing to make your little farm complete.
BUT, I will tell you what I see- a punk. Punk with a capital P.U.N.K.! He has not even had his first month’s birthday yet and already he is a punk. Some of you don’t believe me- you think that nothing this cute and young could possible be classified as a punk. Some of you, however, have dealt with goats and know perfectly well what I am talking about.
So, I will tell you how he came to be known as a punk. Savannah- my 17 yr old daughter & his mama- left for San Angelo leaving me to care for the little guy. So, on the first morning I get him out of his crate (he sleeps in a dog crate in Savannah’s room because it has been quite cold at night and he has no one to keep him warm) and give him his bottle. As I am making the calves bottles, which only takes me about 5 minutes he pees and poops more than should be possible. Now, this is somewhat to be expected so we move on. I open the door and head out and he happily comes along. He is following me like a good boy until we reach the half way mark to the barn. Then he notices a rock, a blade of grass and the plastic that is draped over the livestock trailer converting it into a greenhouse.
So, I walk on calling his name. He knows I am talking to him because he looks at me every time. Each time he acts as though he will run and catch up, but all he does is run a few steps buck and leap in the air and turn around to see what fascinating thing he has missed. At this point I am still thinking that he is innocent- just a happy goat kid exploring his new world. I soon learned the truth.
Still carting the calf bottles each containing a half gallon of milk, I walk back from the barn door (why didn’t I just set the bottles down?) and walk back to him. Just as I get within about 10 feet of him, he turns and runs off. He runs back to the house and all around the back yard. I am in shock. He is knowingly avoiding me because he knows I want to take him to the boring barn. So, still carrying the bottles I trudge back up the hill to the house. Each time I get just close enough to grab him he darts away.
Now, I set the bottles down and get a dog leash. Punk sees the bottles and thinking that he has just hit the mother load of milk comes close enough for me to grab. Having been caught, he turns on the charm nuzzling my neck and talking sweetly to me. I, however, am no spring chicken and having been around the goat block a time or two do not fall prey to his charms. I slip the leash on him looping around one leg “shoulder” and his neck. I do not put it around his neck because a goat will pull so hard against a leash that they will choke themselves down- of course they recover quickly- but still I hate it.
I gather the bottles up and give a little tug. He prances along thinking it is a game until we reach the half way point again. Then he fights like there is a huge beast lurking in the barn waiting to eat him whole! I hold tight to the leash and practically drag him to the barn but he arrives unharmed and conscious. I deposit him in his stall and feed the calves. I apologized to the boys for their milking being lukewarm and they eye the little punk knowing how goats can be.