Some people may think that animals do not express vengeance.
Goats do.
They have been kept inside the barn for the winter, and they are sick of it. They've gotten lice and now they have mites from being indoors too long. They are sick of the cold and they are ready to get outside. On most days, they show a little of this desperation. Tracy bulls her way through the cracked gate as I try to slip inside the pen and suddenly half the herd is out. Chance, the supposed border collie herding dog, is of little help. He tries desperately to sniff the goats' teats, chasing them in no particular direction as they run and leap frantically around the barn.
Well today was another story. The goats decided on a Friday fuck you to let us know how they were feeling about their confinement. Chance and I showed up to mid-shift casually late after jogging there. The goats don't usually mind. I was excited to do our 15 minute shift of hay and water and be back on our jog.
I open the door to the barn (let me explain that the barn is very big and the goats reside only in the very back section. They share the barn with a miniature pony, a few guinea fowl, and several cluttered, half-empty stalls). I open the door to the barn and there are all the goats in the middle of the barn floor, brown paper shreds hanging from their mouths, some looking down at us from "King of the mountain" on the stacks of hay bales. I later found the pony's hairbrush on top. There were beads of goat turds in every corner of the empty stalls. It was inside rolled tarps. Hay everywhere. What once used to be hay bales is now one sprawling mound of fluffed hay. Paper grain sacks were shredded and formed a new ground layer on the barn aisle. Pieces of white tarp were ripped off and trailed around like toilet paper. A 50 lb. bag of lime was ripped open and a white powder covered all surfaces. The goat hooves' shears were carefully picked up out of the clear medicine bin and dropped on the other side of the barn. The pony's grain barrel was opened and there wasn't much left. It was a disaster.
The first task was getting the goats back into the pen. At first, Chance appeared a mean guard dog on his leash, and a few goats trotted away from our advancement and into their pen. Chance would get very distracted by all the new smells and forgot that he was supposed to appear menacing or at least interested. The rest of the goats either ignored him or gave him mere curious looks. I finally gave up on him and locked him in the milking parlor to take the goats in one by one.
Apparently, I must have only latched one lock during morning shift. Yes, the locks are on the outside of the gate and yes, Blackie, the goat can unlatch the door by standing on her hind legs, bending her neck over the top of the door, and using her muzzle to unlatch the outside. After two hours of sweeping up all the rolling goat turds and picking up all the trash and piling hay, I ran into Colin, the barn owner, who informed me the goats had likely eaten 20 lbs. of the pony's food. Chance and I ran (literally) home to let Sarah know.
The rest of the afternoon has been spent giving the goats baking soda, oral injections of yellow bloat medicine, and waiting on the penicillin to give the goats shots in case their rumen develop a bacteria from all the food. Kenzie drove to the far-away farm store only to be given the wrong medicine and Sarah guilted the guy into delivering the right stuff himself.
Meanwhile, I am giving the goats baking soda and two of the doelings get their heads stuck in the mineral feeder. Five minutes pass. They are stuck. Their necks are pressed against each other and the wooden boards. One of them is having trouble breathing. I drive back to the house going 50mph to get tools and Stefan to take the boards apart. We race back down, after I'm sure putting Sarah into more of a panic, and just as we race up to them, we realize they have gotten their necks out themselves.
I am still waiting on Sarah to go back down for some more shots. It seems a bit excessive but I guess I'm not the expert.
Keep in mind Sarah keeps all the goats' grain in its own pen (with double locks) and bungy cords threaded through the metal bins. The goats getting into grain is possibly her worst nightmare. She bought Colin a bungee cord for the pony's grain bin just in case this very thing happened. So maybe Sarah is equally mad at Colin and me.
Thanks goats for your Friday Fuck You and I will always remember to lock both locks. Check. And another thing. Please be okay.
xo
Stacia
Goats do.
They have been kept inside the barn for the winter, and they are sick of it. They've gotten lice and now they have mites from being indoors too long. They are sick of the cold and they are ready to get outside. On most days, they show a little of this desperation. Tracy bulls her way through the cracked gate as I try to slip inside the pen and suddenly half the herd is out. Chance, the supposed border collie herding dog, is of little help. He tries desperately to sniff the goats' teats, chasing them in no particular direction as they run and leap frantically around the barn.
Well today was another story. The goats decided on a Friday fuck you to let us know how they were feeling about their confinement. Chance and I showed up to mid-shift casually late after jogging there. The goats don't usually mind. I was excited to do our 15 minute shift of hay and water and be back on our jog.
I open the door to the barn (let me explain that the barn is very big and the goats reside only in the very back section. They share the barn with a miniature pony, a few guinea fowl, and several cluttered, half-empty stalls). I open the door to the barn and there are all the goats in the middle of the barn floor, brown paper shreds hanging from their mouths, some looking down at us from "King of the mountain" on the stacks of hay bales. I later found the pony's hairbrush on top. There were beads of goat turds in every corner of the empty stalls. It was inside rolled tarps. Hay everywhere. What once used to be hay bales is now one sprawling mound of fluffed hay. Paper grain sacks were shredded and formed a new ground layer on the barn aisle. Pieces of white tarp were ripped off and trailed around like toilet paper. A 50 lb. bag of lime was ripped open and a white powder covered all surfaces. The goat hooves' shears were carefully picked up out of the clear medicine bin and dropped on the other side of the barn. The pony's grain barrel was opened and there wasn't much left. It was a disaster.
The first task was getting the goats back into the pen. At first, Chance appeared a mean guard dog on his leash, and a few goats trotted away from our advancement and into their pen. Chance would get very distracted by all the new smells and forgot that he was supposed to appear menacing or at least interested. The rest of the goats either ignored him or gave him mere curious looks. I finally gave up on him and locked him in the milking parlor to take the goats in one by one.
Apparently, I must have only latched one lock during morning shift. Yes, the locks are on the outside of the gate and yes, Blackie, the goat can unlatch the door by standing on her hind legs, bending her neck over the top of the door, and using her muzzle to unlatch the outside. After two hours of sweeping up all the rolling goat turds and picking up all the trash and piling hay, I ran into Colin, the barn owner, who informed me the goats had likely eaten 20 lbs. of the pony's food. Chance and I ran (literally) home to let Sarah know.
The rest of the afternoon has been spent giving the goats baking soda, oral injections of yellow bloat medicine, and waiting on the penicillin to give the goats shots in case their rumen develop a bacteria from all the food. Kenzie drove to the far-away farm store only to be given the wrong medicine and Sarah guilted the guy into delivering the right stuff himself.
Meanwhile, I am giving the goats baking soda and two of the doelings get their heads stuck in the mineral feeder. Five minutes pass. They are stuck. Their necks are pressed against each other and the wooden boards. One of them is having trouble breathing. I drive back to the house going 50mph to get tools and Stefan to take the boards apart. We race back down, after I'm sure putting Sarah into more of a panic, and just as we race up to them, we realize they have gotten their necks out themselves.
I am still waiting on Sarah to go back down for some more shots. It seems a bit excessive but I guess I'm not the expert.
Keep in mind Sarah keeps all the goats' grain in its own pen (with double locks) and bungy cords threaded through the metal bins. The goats getting into grain is possibly her worst nightmare. She bought Colin a bungee cord for the pony's grain bin just in case this very thing happened. So maybe Sarah is equally mad at Colin and me.
Thanks goats for your Friday Fuck You and I will always remember to lock both locks. Check. And another thing. Please be okay.
xo
Stacia
AHHH!! You have to let us know soon if they're all ok xs and os juli
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