Why my goats hate me

Goats. Good Lord, goats.

Ya know when Sirius Black snuck out of Azkaban after 12 years? Everyone’s all like, OMG Sirius. You can’t just break out of Azkaban like that! It’s totally impossible. The wizarding world straight up lost its mind.

My goats would manage it in a week. Hands down.

Unfortunately, in this metaphor, I’m the soul drinking, joy gobbling dementors. I have finally managed to contain them with the magic that is ‘electricity’ and they now spend much of their day staring in dismay at the fencing and accusing me with their mournful bleats.

To begin with I could hear them calling ‘Beth. Beeeeth’. This then evolved in to ‘Whhhhy, Beeeth’ and now I swear they’re calling ‘Beeeeth, how could yoooou, we trusted yooou’. Even when they’re silent their eyes scream ‘Judas’ at me.

I would like to take this opportunity to explain – mainly to ease my own guilt.

The goats, Jolly and Roger, had a large, overgrown field with a fresh stream, the company of each other and three sheep as well as a cosy shelter that they could hop in and out of. This goaty eden was surrounded by four foot of fencing.  They went over it. We made the fence higher. They went under it. We stretched barbed wire beneath the fencing. They still went through it. I can only assume that they were rehearsing their physical theatre interpretation of ‘We’re going on a bear hunt’ because whatever obstacle we put in their way they would just ‘swishy swishy’ their way through.

The milk man would wonder down the drive with the goats at his heel, so would the postman, and clients, and friends. The goats seemed to think that it was was their duty to escort visitors right to the front door. It was not.

So, we decided to set up electric fencing. The worst part about electric fencing? The goats don’t know that it’s electric. I mean, they learn but it takes some time. It’s not like they go, ‘Oooh, she means business, better stop trying to escape.’ So, they try and get out, they get zapped, they scream (seriously, goats scream) then they stare at the fence for a bit with a look of ‘what in God’s name is this devilry?’ Electric fencing works in pulses as well, so it doesn’t happen immediately. At one point Jolly had reversed herself to the edge of the field and had let her tail rest over the fencing. For those of you that haven’t worked this out yet, this means that the electric current that would at any moment come racing through the fencing was snuggly sandwiched between her tail and her anus. That’s right people, not the fleshy cheek but the exit pipe itself. A couple of seconds later a blood curdling yell tore through the air and Jolly and her slightly smoking rectum went charging across the field.

I’d also like to point out that, although this sounds harsh, the electric fencing doesn’t actually harm the goats in any serious way. The electric shock is more seriously unpleasant than painful (it’s difficult to describe, but I’ve been zapped, so trust me). It is also far safer for them than the risk of an unplanned meeting with a fast moving car on the road.

So now my goats hate me. I’ve ruined their most joyous past time and inflicted some pretty hardcore boundaries on them.

If you plan to take on goats remember; they are harder to imprison than your average politician, they have no qualms about using emotional blackmail to further their cause and them. Goaties. Can. Scream.


3 thoughts on “Why my goats hate me

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