A friend texted me last Thursday, “I wish you weren’t working on Friday. I need help moving some goats.”
I reminded her that I am always down for goat adventures and I have too much vacation that I need to burn because I work too damn much. Let’s go. I’ll bring a dog crate.
The goats were at a farm that is a safe refuge for pigs that grew too big to be pets, runaway (and unclaimed) peacocks in Indianapolis neighborhoods, and a menagerie of other farm animals. They had recently taken in eight goats that had been living in a truck. I am unclear if the truck was actually a semi/box truck or an old pickup truck. But, regardless, I imagine neither the truck nor the goats benefitted from that situation.
I like the pigs the best. We share a certain kinship.
Anyway, we very quickly loaded up two goats. You had to adopt in pairs. My friend’s young daughter picked her favorite and we requested the favorite’s best friend. You don’t break up best friends.
Goats are loud. Did you know? I knew but I absolutely did not know. Meet River Billy Beerman (River), the silver one and Hill Jack Chuckles (Jack), the calico. It was joint naming effort between the adults and young child. I think we did pretty well, but I expect the names to change and grow longer. Small children are excellent at naming animals. They also have a chicken named Bacon.
The goats are settling in, and they’ve only escaped twice (so far!). And I’ve been singing the goat version of “I knew you were trouble” non-stop.
Hire me, folks, for all your goat adventures.
keira perkins 