I realize that I may seem obsessed with goats. I assure you, I am not.
But. Before we moved into our new home, we had a ton of cleaning and remodeling to do. (Like, the 500 used needles in the yard. ”I’m not a crackhead, I have diabetes.” Mmmhmm. Whatever.)
So, anyway, we moved Curly over first and she kind of went apeshit. It may have been the freedom. At our old place, she had to be tied up. Here, she had a pond and a field and tons of room to roam. Of course, she would not stay in the field, but preferred to gallop (goats gallop, shut up) around the yard menacingly and poop on the porch.
One day I went over to work on the place, and discovered we had had an INTRUDER.
Seriously, y’all. Someone broke in and wrote on the walls. This is where it gets weird. They wrote GOUT KILLER. Now. I’m still a bit baffled by this. I think gout is something to do with feet. And I’m pretty sure it’s not a good thing. But I’m no killer. So, uh…… what? I kind of wished they’d come back, and like, clarify. They didn’t. Anyway. We painted over this cryptic message and moved in.
A few weeks later, our goat, God Rest Her Soul, was attacked and eaten alive by a pack of wild dogs. I shit you not. Gus and I had to beat them off of her with shovels (‘cause we are totally badass and zombies better WATCH OUT).
The moral of this story is unclear. It’s either, vandals can’t spell and also hate goats OR I am destined for weirdness and goat-induced mayhem.