Attack

Tis the season and all I seem to be blogging about is murder and attack!

One of my great loves in life are babies! Baby humans, baby dogs, baby kitties, baby ducks, baby chicks, baby cows, baby goats and on and on...

But...I haven't found a way to keep them babies, they all grow up. Some of them grow up and are still just as cute and sweet as ever, like Eddie. However, SOME grow up to become monsters.

Take this one for example, this is Mo...You all know him by now, I'm sure. Look how cute he was, and I stress was.

This is where I like my goats to be. Grazing in the pasture, happy and content and away from my house and my yard. There is something so peaceful about watching a herd of goats grazing in the field. But it is a challenge to keep them there. They are social creatures and, for some reason, they like ME.

They like me A LOT.

Except this one.

Just look at him standing there, looking at me out of the corner of his eye...hating me, planning evil things against me.

Once upon a time he was sweet. He liked simple things like a scratch on the head, a hand full of goat treats, a stroll down the road. But, like all men, that evil poison called testosterone began to course through his veins, and he turned into a monster.

Could it be.... satan? (said in my best church Lady voice)

Now, I'm not a wimp and I rarely let an animal get the better of me. I respect them and all their weird antics but I am ultimately the boss and they must respect that about me. Most of the time, they respect me in return. I feed them, I make sure they are well cared for, and usually we all get along very nicely.

Everybody except for Mo.

So this morning, I was cleaning out the goat pen. How nice of me to make sure that those sweet little goats have a nice clean facility to live in. Mo usually will make it clear that he does not like my being there, but I go about my business and ignore him completely. We have had a few minor run-ins with each other. He will get a little too aggressive and I will have to make it clear that I'm the boss. Sometimes with a boot, sometimes with the water hose (squirting him with it) sometimes with my shovel (pushing him out of my way).

There I am, tra la la la, I'm cleaning my goat pen, when Mo starts pushing me around. Well, I've got a job to do and I don't have time to be putting up with this mean ol goat. I got him to follow me out of the pen and shut the gate where he would be out of the way completely while I did my work. The thing is, once I've filled my wheelbarrow with the soiled shavings, I've got to go back out of the gate to dump it down the hill.

Darn, why didn't I think this through!

Oh, he won't bother me, he's just a goat! I'll be fine. This is my farm and I'll do what I want when I want and not be detoured by a silly old goat.

WRONG!

When I went back through the gate, he was really really mad. I mean really mad. I barely got my shavings dumped when I found myself in a battle.

I tried to get back through the gate before he could follow me...that didn't work out.

I tried to threaten him with my shovel...not a good idea

Did I mention that he was mad?

He penned me between the fence and himself. OH, and he has big horns too!

I finally wriggled my way out of that and thought it was over

WRONG AGAIN!

Have you ever seen a big, mad, mean goat with long horns rare up in an attempt to annihilate you? It's not funny.

So now, I run!

I run really fast.

Not fast enough. Goats are fast. (or maybe I'm slow)

When I woke up this morning, the furthest thing from my mind was that I would be running for my life from a goat.

Oh Lord, don't let this be how I die! I can see the headlines now WOMAN ATTACKED BY GOAT. I'll go down in the redneck hall of fame. My children will be so ashamed.

So, it was at this point that I started to scream. I was running AND screaming with a goat hot on my trail.

Go ahead and laugh.

Luckily Taylor is home from school today and heard my cries for help. After a few more laps and a few more horn-punches to my legs and arms, I made it to the gate that leads to my yard but the stupid goat penned me again. And then my hero arrived. Taylor showed up, eyes as wide a saucers, and assisted in letting me out of the goat pen.

Stupid goat!

I called Rodney and told on Mo. We are going to build a pen for him later down at the barn so he will be separated from my sweet little does. Incidentally, I've got one of my dairy goats locked up in the birthing room expecting kids very soon.

As for Mo...He is lucky I'm a pacifist.