Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places


| 1/4/2012 12:37:31 PM


Tags: goats, homesteading, farming, milk, dairy, heat, noise, Angela Von Weber-Hahnsberg,

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that I was boy-crazy when I was in middle school. Actually, it’s probably more of an understatement. I was boy-obsessed. My diary teemed with fervent oaths of undying love for at least seven or eight of the boys in my class. My little preteen heart fluttered with excitement whenever any of them looked my way, and if one of them actually spoke to me – well, that was a matter that called for several hours of intense discussion on the phone with a friend.

So I suppose I should have expected that eventually, the chickens would come home to roost, and I’d have to put up with a boy-crazy kid of my own. I just never anticipated that the kid in question would be Buttercup, our little Nigerian Dwarf doe!

My first indication that all was not as it should be came on a busy Saturday morning. When I rushed outside to feed our little backyard herd of three does, Buttercup came completely unglued. I’d never seen her in such a state before – bleating her little head off, at the top of her lungs! Still being relatively new to raising goats, I thought maybe she was just extra hungry for some reason, so I gave her a little more grain than usual. To my surprise, she took barely a nibble, and started the noise right back up again! Now she had me worried – was she sick? Or maybe injured? Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to dwell on the situation right then; my two sons were waiting impatiently to be driven to their various Saturday morning activities. All I could do was look her over quickly – she seemed fine – and then hurry to the car. My concern faded as the morning went on; surely, by now, all was well at home.

When we arrived back home later that day, however, my husband emerged from the bedroom with a wild, desperate look in his eyes.

“She’s been screaming all day,” he told me, sounding a bit panicked. “Every 30 seconds. ALL DAY!”

Being that my husband can sometimes be given to exaggeration, especially where my beloved goats (or, as he affectionately calls them, my “stupid sheep”) are concerned, I took this with a grain of salt. Surely it couldn’t be that bad.  




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