Just kidding, the goat wasn’t murderous, but its owner was getting pretty close.

True fact: my grandmother lives next to a man with a pasture and a lot of acres–a gazillion–I kid you not. Well, the fields sat empty for some time before his nephew decided to board his horses there, and now it is the home of two horses, a donkey, a hog, two goats, and four/five kittens (because I can’t actually remember the count).

Well, if you do not know this little factoid: goats can jump. Really, really high. The miniature goat–I don’t know his name, so we’ll call him Freddy–leapt over the nearly five foot high stall door and began running amuck in the fields. Apparently miniature goats have a problem with their small stature, because he refused to come near anyone who wasn’t a child. Which was none of us, so…

That didn’t work.

We tried coaxing him with food. Nothing. We tried to corner him. Nada. Then the horses began to torment him by chasing him around the pasture while the baby goat just kept calling out for his bottle, and we were all running around with dirt and mud all over our pants. I tried to hold onto the donkey, but she’s very feisty and she kept nipping at the poor goat’s tail.

Little to say, we did not catch him. He’s like a ninja. He’s there, and then he’s not! Okay, Freddy, challenge accepted!

Average and in desperate need of a shower,

Mel