The goats got out this morning.
It’s not the first time. They are experts and it is quite amazing how they can fit their large, rounded bodies through a hole in the fence that cannot be seen with the human eye. The opening this morning was a bit more obvious.
In early January, a chunk – not a soccer ball chunk or medium-sized dog chunk – but a human body sized chunk of ice fell on a section of the wire fencing of their pen. It was repaired but goats: they watch, they take notes, they talk among themselves. They plan and they wait.
My personal theory is that they’ve been working away at the weak area of fencing for a while now and having succeeded, have the run of the place. My instinct was to yell for my son, but then remembered I dropped him off for his last semester of college in Boston a week ago. So it is me (severely lacking in upper arm strength and ok … strength) versus a wire fence now frozen to the ground in spots, three nosy goats pretending to help in 27 degree weather and snow. It might just be easier to bring them inside at this point.
Just until spring.
That’s a homesteader thing, right?
It’s times like these that I wonder why I don’t have a “farmhand” to do these kind of things. All the romance novels I’ve ever read about a woman carving a life out of the wilderness had a farmhand: a sexy farmhand, surly farmhand, young boy farmhand, farmhand with a hidden past, or a farmhand who saves the day by rounding up the escaped horses or cattle or goats.
I guess this homesteading thing comes down to finding a farmhand or increasing my upper body strength and geiving my dream. It’s an obvious choice.
Excuse me while I go check Craigslist.
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