I have three goats – a mamma and two twin daughters. I bought them from a little girl who knocked on my door one day, asking if I'd like to buy some goats. And since goats like to eat grass, I figured that I’d let them eat it (instead of me having to mow it), leaving me free to nap on the couch. I give a lot of credence to napping on the couch, especially when I’m supposed to be doing yard work.
I actually enjoy watching my goats, but the only reason they tolerate me is because I bring them food every now and then. If it wasn't for the food, they'd steal the credit card right out of my wallet, and head for the mall to hang out with their little goat friends. It's a good thing they can't drive, but I suspect while I’m asleep they’re secretly learning how.
I’ve had these goats for almost six months now, and although they haven’t learned a thing from me, I have learned plenty from them.
Goats are sneaky. Don't trust them. They'll look you right in the eye as if to say, "You're my best friend," but when you turn your back, they'll head-butt you and start eating your new khaki pants. Sounds like people I know, but that's a different story.
Goats are noisy when they're hungry, and they’re always hungry. Their cries sound like the cries of children in pain -- and the goats know it. Don't go running outside to see what's causing them agony. It's a trap. And they know how to build excellent traps.
It’s best to feed goats things like carrots, lettuce, and bananas, but never three-week-old chocolate cake. If you do, they'll stop eating the grass – and can you really blame them? No animal in its right mind would gladly munch on weeds and poison ivy after eating three-week-old chocolate cake. I know I wouldn’t. And if the goats stop eating grass, that means you have to mow it, which defeats the purpose of having goats in the first place.
Never turn your back on a goat. They have sharp horns. You may consider a simple impaling as mere playfulness, but I guarantee they mean to draw blood -- and lots of it. They don't want you towering over them. They want you on the ground, writhing in agony, your life's blood pouring out of gaping wounds. As you look up at them, you'll notice their teeth are bigger than you thought. And why are they so big? "The better to eat you with, my dear."
Goats can escape anything. Go ahead, pen them in as tightly as you can. Put little handcuffs around their little legs, put a burlap sack over their heads, throw them in a locked chest, bury the chest six feet deep, and park your car over the top. The goats will be out by morning, eating the neighbor's prized tomatoes -- the ones your neighbor had planned to exhibit at the county fair.
Neighbors are very protective about their prized tomatoes. It's best to have your checkbook handy when they come to visit.
I'd eat my goats, but I promised the little girl I bought them from that I wouldn't. Which leads me to the last thing I've learned: Never make promises to little girls selling goats. They're in cahoots with each other.
