There is someone in on my family's homestead that you have not been introduced to yet. Mostly because I hate him and I don't want to write about him, but here I find myself….writing about him. The “him” I refer to is our worthless, incredibly large, aggressive, deranged, wild, obnoxious, obese goat. His name is Jack.
Because nothing quite says “I love you to the moon and back!” like a goat, my Dad bought Jack as an anniversary present for my Mom.
Happy anniversary, my darling wife. I bought you a goat!
Oh cute! A little goat!
Actually the goat is 400 pounds.
Oh fun! I can snuggle him like a big ‘ol teddy bear.
Actually the goat will head butt you with enough force to knock over a telephone pole.
Oh! Well that's okay, at least I can twirl his cute little billy-goat beard in my fingers!
Actually the goat doesn't have a beard.
Let me tell you a wee little story about this worthless animal (I mean, honestly, you can't even milk him. Need I say more?) In July, I was seven months pregnant. I was also doing the flowers for my little sister's wedding. Knowing we had a beautiful rose hip bush down in the pasture, I gently strolled down in the heat of the day to trim some rose hips for the bouquets. As I stood on the fence to reach the tall branches in a pregnancy-balancing act that should not have been attempted, crazy ‘ol Jack meanders over my way. He can smell the rose hips. Forage. Goats love forage.
Anyway, I took my treasure (I only clipped the prettiest rose hips) and started waddling my way back up to the house. All of a sudden from behind, I felt two hooves on my shoulders. SHOULDERS, people! Jack was standing on his hind legs attacking me from behind. My Mom might claim that he was simply playing, but girlfriend, when a 200 pound goat starts battin' you with his hooves from behind, it ain't funny. I, in my normal response to being afraid, fall on the ground from the force and curl up in fetal position. Jack then begins to eat the thorny rose hips I am holding, tearing up my hands in the process. At this point, I begin to panic, thinking of my unborn baby relying on me for protection, so I start throwing punches and screaming things at him, like “!@$(&@#$%*!!!!! I HATE YOU!” No, I didn't really swear. That would be un-lady-like. And homesteaders are ladies. I distinctly remember telling him I hated him, though. And I do.
Luckily, I have a scream pitched high enough to shatter glass when I am fearing for my life, so my brother-in-law Brandon heard me all the way up at the house. He literally sprinted to the pasture, jumped the fence (I mean, he cleared that bad boy), and ran to protect me from Satan. I haven't ever seen him move that fast. My Dad also came running (secretly, he knows how stupid Jack is…he just won't admit it). However, if you have ever seen a Mama bear protect her cubs, then you have an idea of how my Dad protects me. He was throwing punches, kicking, yelling, and throwing dirt in an unsuccessful attempt to get the goat away from my danged rose hips. Eventually, he was able to distract Jack long enough for me to hobble out of the pasture (as I cradled my belly and wiped my dirty tears and snot away with the back of my hand).
Then I went into the house and cried and told my Mom that I hated her goat. And I do.
Lucky for me though, I am married to a very loyal man. He chooses to side with me and protect me from all evils.