A Career-Change and A Full-Bore-Meltdown

“Here. You be the horse.” She said.

So I was the horse and she was the person, and she tied me to the barn door.

“Now you try.”

So I did and I got the knot right and I learned a new skill.

I’d posted on Facebook looking for a wether. 2-3 years old. A friendly goat who wanted a Career-Change to join our intrepid gang.

“He really needs a job, so I want him to be with you,” she said, too tough for the tear that snuck up on her. It rolled around her eye for a minute and then went away. She tried about a hundred times to catch him, and a hundred times she let him go, deciding to leave her arm in its socket when he took off. We set up a Motorcycle Ramp to walk him into the truck but even that was too steep for him. Then we all took a break because one of the other goats was in labor so we watched the birth of a new life and then went back to work.

Audrey held a rope on one side of Wyatt’s butt, Sophie had the rope on the other cheek and they pulled him up there while I awkwardly held a bucket of grain and cooed at the big boy who was not interested in any bribery from me. PULL!! – hi sweet boy, you got this – GET ON UP THERE!! – look little sweetie it’s your favorite grain – PULL!!! And then he’d just jump down and head off on his own. Audrey set up a milking stand and then the motorcycle ramp on top of that. More pulling-and-pushing-and-cajoling and nothing. It took a hundred and twelve more tries to get him loaded into the truck, but he did finally get in there. He was a big boy. I’m no judge of weight, but he was bigger than Bosco. A lot bigger. This boy could carry some real gear for us if he worked out. We hoped he’d get easier to handle. We hoped he was just a tad perturbed and would get over his nerves shortly. We hoped he’d like us a little more tomorrow. Maybe?

Bosco just wore his too-big jacket all crookedy and stood in the back of the truck watching the goings-on, pooping happily and baa-ing his sweet little baa.

She tied Wyatt in the back of the truck and then we tied in Bosco the same way and then all of a sudden we were driving Wyatt away from his home. Away from the gorgeous, quiet ranch where he was raised. Away, away into the bright light of the desert afternoon and toward his new home a half hour north.

We carefully set up the motorcycle ramp and tried to coax Wyatt down but he just hopped off the truck like it was a curb and Bosco tiptoed halfway down and took a leap like he was cliff-diving and then everyone was out. And Wyatt blinked and looked around and wouldn’t come to us even for some delicious grain, and we weren’t surprised one bit and we figured he had enough for one day. We took off the stock rack and I headed home.

I went to the carwash but of course it was closed so I went to the self-serve car wash and put in my credit card. A man walked up to me. “What the hell is this? GOAT SHIT?”

“Yeah.” I said and kept spraying out the truck.

He had a full-bore-meltdown and pretty soon I figured out he worked there when he started chasing around each ball of goat shit with a broom and a pan before they rolled down the drain. He looked ridiculous, pissed, and was getting himself all wet.

“I’ll do it!” I yelled over the spray-foam-power-wash-mode. He looked at me quizzically and then set down the broom and the pan. He didn’t look quite as pissed after that.

So I washed the truck and then took his little broom and pan and swept up each little ball of Bosco’s butt nuggets while the guy talked my ear off about how only ranchers and business owners have any respect for anyone these days, and he wished homeless people would stop stealing his garbage bags, and how if goat shit gets into his drain it will smell for weeks, and he doesn’t know why people with muddy or really dirty cars go to car washes because don’t people know that’s disrespectful to the people who have clean cars and wash them every day? Why should people with clean cars – who are trying to clean their cars – have to step in mud or goat shit before they get back into their clean cars? People with dirty cars just have no business in the car wash.

He didn’t actually want to have a conversation, he just wanted to talk, so I nodded a lot and when I was done I handed the gear back to him. He just stared into my eyes. “You missed one behind you. By your left foot.”

Oh for fuck’s. whatever.

And I picked that one up too.