Yesterday, we bought a second goat, a gangly Nubian beauty named Pastry. She stepped into our yard, glanced around, started yelling, and did not stop. If one of us left her side, she chased us, ears akimbo, and shouted. All night she screamed. Depending on the hour, she sounded like a wounded elephant/angry donkey/dying man who's lost his wits. If we lived in the country, we would have ignored her. But we have neighbors, we like our neighbors, and we were mortified.
I spent the night in the hutch to keep Pastry hollering once every few minutes, as opposed to once every few seconds. When I tried to leave, she ran around the yard in the dark, bellowing hysterically. I emerged from the hutch this morning with straw in my hair and cloven hoof marks on the sleeping pad. I smelled like goat and I'm sure I was peed on. It was one of the worst nights of my life.
At 7 a.m., I dragged Pastry back to the minivan and drove her an hour north, back to the gracious 4H girl who sold her to us. Pastry is a fine goat, but she is not the goat for us. I came home and took a shower and put on a dress. Sometimes you only know your limits when you pass them.