Anytime you are worried about what your goats might be doing, they are usually doing it. Gordon Whitefoot (OK, newly home from New Zealand had me leaning towards Canadiana) was the first addition to the farm: before the chickens hatched and before we had any fencing, we had a goat. What can I say, I went to buy fencing for the chicken coup and came home with Gordon. Who could resist such a sweet face?
Below is Fatty-fat. Fat-Fat-Fatty-Fat, to be precise, but her nick-name is Nanny. When she and her sister Shiraz came to the farm they were fat, really fat. They had been on another farm in the valley living with the herd of pigs. I’m not sure what you are supposed to call a ‘herd’ of pigs, so it will have to do. The farmer wanted to get rid of the two goats because they were jumping on his tractor; and we can’t have that now can we? Anyway, an extra two goats wasn’t quite what I was expecting to have upon my husband’s return from the liquor store.
Yes, goats climb trees. Well, ok this is a large shrub, but still you get the point. Actually, this is a good example of why many people dislike goats; they wreck trees and shrubs, basically anything edible. In those terms, that includes a vast list of delicacies like your roses, your kitchen chive patch, and the grapevine you planted close to the house to keep away from the Grizzly bear.
Malcolm was born in town at a friend’s place. He then moved to a neighbour’s place with his mother and a few other goats once they’d outgrown their place in town. Malcolm came to us last year when his mother and the other goats were killed by a cougar. How he survived a cougar attack no one knows. He didn’t come out unscathed, but alive. He really is the sweetest goat I’ve had. I think he’d be quite happy hanging out inside the house with us like a dog: a dog that can tap-dance on all our furniture.