Oh Those Gregarious Goats!
The sign read, “Baby Goats 4 Sale.”
I had traveled the always-busy, Hardscrabble Road, in Roswell, Georgia, several times a day and never noticed the farm located behind the small brick home. But my daughter didn’t miss the sign.
“Baby Goats!” my daughter squealed. “We must stop.”
I hadn’t the time to stop. We were late for her dance practice. In Atlanta, dance, gymnastics, karate, and all sports are required.
My daughter didn’t miss a beat. “Today’s Sunday school lesson was on being obedient and I think God would like me to see those goats.”
Of course, I pulled over.
That was the day we met Billy Albertson, the last farmer of Roswell, Georgia, who later became the subject of both of my nonfiction books. Billy’s “Nannies” had been busy. Each pregnant nanny had two or three newborns. Everywhere we looked there were baby goats who were so full of energy they could barely keep their feet on the ground. We carried them. We rocked them like they were tiny babies. We kissed them. My daughter was thrilled and of course asked, “Can I have a goat?”
We did the next best thing: We started helping Billy in his garden. Here we learned that goats are mischievous little critters, but they aren’t indestructible and can die if they get a tummy ache. Farmer Billy taught us how to milk a goat, how to birth a goat, and how to catch one that escapes the fence by shaking a bucket of feed to get its attention.
As English Ivy vines crept toward my house, I struck a deal with Billy. I would borrow Hairy, who Billy assured was his most gentle goat. Hairy—so named because of his handsome goatee—would spend a week at my house eating all the ivy, honeysuckle, and that poison ivy. Folk often borrowed Billy’s goats. He loaded them up. They stayed a couple weeks and returned fat and sassy.
“Just tie him to a tree. He will be fine,” Billy said without a hint of concern when I asked if Hairy would run away.
The day began with me following Billy’s orders. I tied Hairy in place, provided a bucket of water, then went inside to make lunch. I planned on eating a sandwich while watching my free weed eater devour English Ivy. Imagine my surprise when upon my return I found a collar with the clasp broken. Hairy was on the loose. Despite my best efforts, the bucket of feed didn’t lure Hairy back home. The more I chased the faster he ran.
I was too nervous to say a peep to Farmer Billy. I figured Hairy would show up … eventually. Fortunately, three days later, I notice a sign a few miles from my house, “Found Goat.” Hairy had crossed six lanes of Atlanta traffic and had taken up residence at another place with goats in the back yard.
Wayward goats seem to find me. Last year, I looked outside my kitchen window and there was a large—very smelly—goat ramming my beautiful cherry tree as hard as he could. As was the case with Hairy, this goat had escaped the rope that tethered him. While trying to get Hairy to come with a bucket of feed hadn’t work, Smelly (that’s what I named him) came a running.
Boy, could that goat run fast. And his horns were huge; the kind that are thick at the skull and dangerously pointy at the tip. Trouble is, I have two goats of my own and I knew Smelly would hurt my perfect little boys the second I put them together. As Smelly moved from the cherry tree to my peach trees I knew I must act snappy fast. I moved my boys to a second pen and put Smelly in theirs. He immediately began ramming the lone tree.
Smelly wore out his welcome mighty quick.
I installed a sign at the end of my road which read, “Found Goat.” As did multiple Facebook posts complete with a photo of Smelly.
When I say this goat smelled, I mean he was rank. He was a “working goat,” if you know what I mean. You don’t? OK, he was a breeder, and his glands secrete a stinky, stinky aroma that girl goats apparently adore. My perfect little angels are wethers, meaning their boy parts had been removed.
While my little angels cried, “Momma! Momma!,” Smelly’s odiferous musk wafted on the breeze as he attempted to pulverize the locust. We could smell him from inside my home.
Smelly had to go.
A week later, we reunited him with his owner. I have never been so happy.
Goats apparently like to escape their confines. Last month, an animal exchange was going down at the local McDonalds. You know how we meet people in public parking lots because we don’t feel safe telling people where we live. That’s what happened when a seller and buyer agreed to exchange money for a goat I shall call Houdini. Now I don’t know what possessed the seller to have a goat inside his car with the windows down, I only know Houdini either wanted an egg McMuffin, or saw a chance at freedom and took it, because one minute he was inside the vehicle and the next, Houdini was loose in downtown Bryson City, North Carolina.
Houdini, it appears, was faster than Hairy and Smelly combined.
Houdini hightailed it up schoolhouse hill with his little goat-hooves going clickety-clack and the lead rope trailing behind. My friend AmyBeth tried to capture it using a variety of snacks from cake to Cheetos but Houdini was having none of it. Houdini had trust issues. How could he not, he had just been held captive in one of those vile contraptions humans call cars.
The fine menfolk of my hometown gathered around the back of a pickup truck and concocted a plan to seize the goat by the horns. They are mountain men, and mountain men don’t cotton to wayward goats grazing on momma’s gardenia bushes. Yes, they decided, they would lasso Houdini.
The women popped popcorn. This was going to be fun.
Happy with his newfound freedom, Houdini released a throaty laugh and clickety-clacked down the road. The menfolk tried and failed to capture their unwanted visitor. The women left a smorgasbord of snacks, which he greedily devoured while safely out of reach. Houdini can’t be caught, and he fell into a nasty habit of peeping into the bedroom windows of anyone who didn’t have Cujo for a guard dog. He sleeps on porches and beds down in carports.
When you visit Bryson City, keep an eye out for Houdini. Last I heard, he’s still on the loose.