Hello, friend. Thank you for joining me here!

A few weeks ago, we “rented“ a herd of goats to help clear our land from invasive plants, weeds, and Dreaded Buckthorn. Apparently, this is a thing. Buckthorn is considered especially evil, as it can take over your property and kill off every other growing thing. If left untreated, you will just have a farm full of buckthorn. So, measures must be taken. Of course, I had never heard of any of this before moving to rural Minnesota. Also, I had definitely not heard of renting goats to help take care of the problem. We were working with a wonderful garden expert to help us identify native and non-native or invasive plants on our property, and she used rented goats on her own farm last summer . The previous owner—who lived on our farm for 50 years—was once an avid gardener, but it is clear that during the final years of her life when she was ailing, no maintenance of the grounds had happened. When my daughter and I arrived in late August, the property was so overgrown that in some areas, you could barely see the first floor of the house! Hydrangea as tall as I am took over one side completely. And here’s a fun fact: when you have copious plantings around your foundation, it is an open invitation to rodents. Good times! Our pest control person (thank goodness we have found many awesome people to educate us) said that those out-of-control plantings were the number one reason that we have had mice and shrews in our basement—well, that and the fact that we basically live in their territory, not the other way around. It is a big priority to clear away all of the plantings around the house before the ground freezes and discourage regrowth in the spring. However, even if we have the time and energy to deal with what is growing right around the house, that does leave about 6.5 more acres to manage…Cue the goats.

In early October, a large trailer arrived containing about 30 of them. On the side was emblazoned, “GOAT DISPATCH.” They were stuffed in there, bleating and slightly crazy-eyed. (The owner, Jake, had come out the day before to discuss what part of the property we wanted cleared and to put up a long electric fence.) On delivery day he announced that he had decided to leave us eight male goats for approximately 2 1/2 to 3 weeks. Jake spent about 20 minutes using a long metal wand of sorts and shifting multiple divider doors inside of the trailer to first separate the boys from the girls and then to corral the specific bucks he had chosen for us. I’m not sure how he knows which animals are right for which property, but I expect it has to do with the terrain and the nature of the beasts. Once our goats were moved to the back of the trailer, he gave us instructions. I was surprised to be included. He said that one of us was to stand behind the trailer with our arms up and wave the goats towards the fenced off area, and then walk behind them as they moved. There was also an old plastic soda bottle filled with dried corn (their favorite), that another of us could use to tempt them toward the enclosure. He showed us what he meant, but he didn’t talk much about contingency plans. It felt as if he thought we knew what we were doing, and I was pretty skeptical about what might happen. Indeed, when the trailer door opened, the goats rushed awkwardly out, looking confused and stumbling about. They completely ignored us, running wild into our collapsed barn, which definitely did not seem safe to me. There is a fallen tree that took down the middle of the thing who knows how long ago and shattered boards jutting up precariously around disintegrating ceiling joists. Jake seemed pretty relaxed about this. The goats practically ran each other over as they darted in and out of other outbuildings, including the small pump house, filled with tools and supplies. They knocked over heavy shovels and tinny rakes, and the jarring soundtrack multiplied their freak-out. It was chaos. Finally, they bolted for the road—a very busy county highway at the end of our 50 yard dirt drive. At this point, I was pretty panicked. Jake still seem relaxed, but he pulled out the big gun: his small, swift, goat-herding dog, Bailey. Jake opened the back door of his truck and said some magic word that I can’t recall, and Bailey leaped out and took off in a furry blur. The goats were surprisingly fast, but Bailey rounded on them just in time and brought them back in a manageable pack, disgruntled but contained. We were able to then use our novice arm-waving/corn-shaking skills to guide the goats into the fenced off area. Jake admitted at this point that he had not been expecting all of that. 

As he closed the opening and plugged in the electricity for the fence, I inquired about water for the goats. He said to put out a big bucket. Hmm. I had been told by our gardener that her goat rental had been an all-inclusive kind of deal; those goat people set them up with water—and even came by to check on them and fill the buckets. It seems we’d found a different sort of company, more of a DYI deal. At this point I had to get real with Jake. I told him we had just moved from the NYC area, that we were actors, not farmers. We didn’t have big troughs, nor large buckets, nor extra dried corn on hand for the care and feeding of goats. I told him it wasn’t that kind of farm. Thankfully, Jake found an extra muck bucket in the truck and told us where we could get corn. He showed us how to push the electric fence down while wearing rubber shoes, in case we needed to get in there. Last, he gave us a phone number for “goat emergencies.” And that was that. 

Over the next two weeks, our relationship with the herd evolved. At the start, maybe because it was kind of a traumatic introduction, they avoided us. But, a few days in, David made it over to Fleet Farm and got a big bag of dried corn. We began to regularly toss handfuls over the fence and they started liking us a lot more. Each goat had plastic tags in both ears—one with a number, one with a name—about the size of those 1960’s, diamond shaped hotel room keychains. Two goats stood out, for all the wrong reasons: Aldo and Chuck. There’s no other way to say it, those two were assholes. They were the biggest, with the largest horns, and when the corn came out they rammed the smaller goats out of the way pretty viciously. They were the billy goats’ bully goats. Poor little Buzz, Bug and Tate almost never got corn. We came up with elaborate throwing tricks to try to ensure equal opportunity corn access, but the big boys would have none of it. Every once in a while, the “little sweeties,” as Finley called them, nabbed a few kernels and we celebrated robustly. It feels good when bullies don’t win—especially in 2020.

The days went by, and the goats ate their way through our buckthorn, along with just about everything else. They even climbed up low trees, snagging leaves on high. They bedded down close together at night, sharing warmth as the days grew colder. We would see them huddled in the early morning fog, a nice reminder of life out there. During the days, one of us would say, “Have you checked on the goats?,” and someone would always volunteer. The sight of them, bullies and all, felt reassuring. They were always there, in some corner of the farm, chewing and looking hopefully towards us with corn on the brain. Until…one day…they weren’t.

At the start of their third week, the goats up and disappeared. It was a normal day, by all other standards. David had seen them the night before around 7pm, when he took a chilly patio “shower.” (He stood in the outdoor tub and poured scalding gallon jugs of water over himself, sudsed quickly, then rinsed.) The goats watched this routine nonplussed. David bid them goodnight and we assumed they also hit the hay, so to speak. The next morning around 10AM, Finley and I headed outside to give them some corn. They were nowhere to be seen. At the end of the enclosure, the part by the road, the fencing was dramatically mangled and stretched out on the ground such that it would have been easy to walk over without getting shocked. It looked like violence had occurred. David had gone out earlier, and I called him yelling, “The goats are gone! The goats are gone!” Finley stood, unsure, with the full corn pan in her mittened hands, as I screamed, “GOATS!!! GOATS!!!!” and ran up and down the fence line and out along the road. Before David got back, I had searched the length of the property twice. I’d also found the Goat Dispatch phone number and called in with shaking fingers. I pressed “2” for “Goat Emergency” and left a breathless message. Soon, Jake called back. Once again, he did not seem too worried. He assured me that, “They can hide pretty good,” and asked if I’d checked inside all of our outbuildings. I said I thought I had but would double check, and he said he’d send out a tracker. Apparently, they have folks on call for goat disappearances and runaway events. By this time, David had returned, and we combed our land anew, finding nothing. He got back in the car and drove along the county highway, checking ditches and peering into tall grass vistas for signs of horns and movement. He even drove into the state park across the way and alerted the ranger on duty. Meanwhile, Finley had grown tired of looking and amiably settled in to watch Kids Netflix, so we could keep up the hunt. I walk all the way down our nearest neighbors’ drive, which is much longer than ours. I hadn’t met them yet and practiced what I’d say the whole brisk walk over. “Hi! I’m your new neighbor! I’m so sorry to bother you, but we’ve lost our goats. Have you seen them?” Not exactly the impression I’d hoped for. I had been planning to actually bake something and deliver it in a covered basket with a gingham napkin, but…I digress. To my relief, the neighbors weren’t home. I nosily wandered all through their yard with no luck. I found a break in the barbwire fence between our fields and crossed over. I even peered down the cliff at the end of our land, remembering that goats are sturdy climbers. Nothing. They were truly gone without a trace.

Eventually, the ‘tracker’ showed up. It was actually two teenagers who seemed about as concerned as our friend Jake. When the boy, Blake, saw the torn up fence, he told us that sometimes a big buck can get its horns twisted in there and will fight to get free. Since I’d seen Aldo and Chuck use their horns with shocking force, this made perfect sense to me. Ironic that the bullies’ violent tendencies had this time provided herd emancipation, rather than oppression. Blake and his girlfriend wore florescent safety vests and wove throughout the surrounding area on foot. They called the Sheriff, who began driving to all the neighboring farms to inquire about goat sightings. It was a big operation. The situation was officially out of our hands at this point. I was worried that we would be held responsible in some way for any loss of goats, but David said there hadn’t been any kind of contract or legal agreement regarding liability. I finally had to give our child some lunch and actually parent. After she ate, I took Finley to Target, still worried and just plain dumbfounded by it all. I mean, how do you just lose a whole herd of goats?

We did our masked, sanitized errands, and it took our minds off the missing boys. By the time we drove home, it was close to 4PM. On the road, we got a call: THE GOATS WERE BACK! Apparently, David had been in the house and glanced out the living room window at the area where the fence was down, and all eight goats were standing right there, as if they’d never left. They were not harmed, nor stressed, nor aware of the efforts made on their behalf. They were just milling around near the scene of the crime, looking at David with those odd, rectangular pupils and chewing. 

Blake called off the search. He informed us that he thought the goats were running out of things to eat and that’s why they went elsewhere for the day. The teens repaired the fence, and David went out with a chainsaw to cut down some extra shrubs from outside their area to throw in there. In the morning, Jake called. He was coming to get our goats. I am sure they were running low on food, as they had cleared quite a lot, but I feared our failure as shepherds was a factor in his decision. David disagreed. Goats are goats. We did our best. 

I was sad when Jake took them away. They were loaded into a smaller trailer this time and they made plaintive “Maaaaa” sounds in there as I said goodbye. I told little Buzz and Bug to be strong and not take any guff. Finley was at Kindergarten when they left and couldn’t say goodbye. She took the news of their departure stoically. We told her we would do it again, maybe in the summer when the weeds are tall. That seemed a comfort. Even now, a couple of weeks later, I still look out the window for the goats as I tiptoe down the stairs in the early morning. It’s funny how fast you can get used to something. It’s funny how warm, furry bodies—even outside—bring comfort. Just knowing they were there made our crazy, construction site of a house feel more like a home. All those extra heartbeats. Regardless of their squabbles, they brought life. They expanded our tight circle of attention beyond ourselves. It felt like caring for and about them opened our little family up. In including them, they included us. This silly experiment taught me that we should probably add some animals to our world permanently. I’ve always felt like keeping my child alive was enough work—and that is still true. But what I didn’t think about until those goats were missing from the field is that, just like children, animals bring unexpected rewards to your life—even as they take away from your time and energy. And now that our daughter is older, she could receive those rewards, too. 

The goat rental has ended. The lesson remains: when you give, you receive. And warm bodies gathered together, breathing in and out, hearts beating steadily, exponentially increases the life in a place. There is a reason that groups feel good. There is a reason that we are suffering during our distancing. We are like the goats. Despite their in-fighting and competition for control, they actually stuck together out there and came back as one. I admire that. They need to be together. So do we. Divided, we fall. Divided, we fail. America feels so broken. We are apart politically. We are apart pandemically. I do not know how to help that. But I can invite communion here on this farm with greater generosity. Our gateway goats have made a bit of room in my heart for some animals here—something I’d been resisting. I’m not saying that this increased inclusivity will include the people I vote differently from. That’s a bigger hurdle. I guess I just want to say that having new experiences, and learning a little about something foreign to me, did shift my attitude. Safety does not necessarily come from avoiding from what scares you. Comfort can come from unanticipated connections. We so badly want to connect right now. Apparently, I’m disconnected enough that I even found a soft spot for bickering billy goats. I laughed about doing this when I first heard the idea. I thought it would be a kick. Turns out, I needed a reminder that I needed a clan. A larger group for me to belong to, that also belongs to me. And not just online. For reals. Heartbeats and body heat. The simultaneous intake of clean lungfuls of shared air—without fear. If we cannot be in human herds soon, I may become a crazy goat lady. 

I kid you not.