Get goats, I thought. It will be great, I thought! So got goats, I did. It was great, I thought.
In fact, when people posted free goats, I thought, with horror, how can you give away a great goat? I contemplated bringing them all home, but Pa W is a wise man and tells me no when he should.
So, this morning, I’m reveling in all my goatie greatness, getting ready to milk my doe, and carrying a bit of grain to the milk stand for her, when out of no where, all of the other goats swarm me. A bit of grain sounds mighty nice to them on this brisk morning.
I push one aside, then another. Then, the next thing I know, there are goat feet on my arm and shoulder, and I turn, to push away the nosy goat, and I get goat-punched-in-the-face.
I stand for a moment, with a goat still clobbering me, small scoop of feed held high in the air, out of goat reach. And I push again, shoving myself through the gate into the milking pen.
And then, my blood begins to boil, as I spit grit out of my mouth and blood trickles out of my nose. How dare that goat! How dare she punch me in the face! I’m giving the goat away! Free goat! Free goat! Free goat! I scream inside my head while standing at the milk stand. I’m trying to catch my breath, I’m trying to get the sand out of my teeth, I’m trying to brush the dirt off of my face.
Free goat! Free goat! Free goat!
Over again in my head I chant. The enjoyment of the brisk morning far gone.
Somehow, though, milking my good little Shimmy girl was redeeming. I never made it to the free goat posting. In fact, after the first two pulls of fresh milk, I forgot that I wanted to give one of the girls away.
I’ve learned my lesson about milking time. I will put everyone up in the round pen before I take feed to the milking pen, and save myself the future embarrassment of being goat punched in the face.
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