The Day the Goats had a Party
A bizarre thing happened the other day. I went out to pick up hay across town, and there was a little delay, so it took a bit of extra time. When we got back and I walked in the front door, my quite rutty, fully horned, 200-lb Sable Buckman was just inside the door and looked up at me like, “Oh, hey, there you are!” It took me a stunned couple of seconds to realize that about three-quarters of the goats were inside my house. I stepped back out, shut the door, and yelled for help from James (lots of thumping and goats yelling inside as I waited).
A united force, we went back in the door. I can’t repeat what James said. There were, you see, goats not just in the living room but also goats in the kitchen, goats in the dining room, and goats halfway up the stairs (a couple of kids were playing, running up and down). And I mean almost all the goats. Does, mamas with their kids, the bottle crew, and all six bucks. There was broken glass from a coffee pot, a couple of plugs out (kitchen light isn’t working), and two of three sacks of feed spread all over ground zero, which is my mudroom and milking area right off my kitchen. The dog food was mostly gone, and someone had a bag of potato chips. All the dog water was also gone, so someone got thirsty.
It took us about 15 minutes to get them out, and I spent the rest of the day scrubbing the floors and cleaning up. The dining room would need it again the next day. Apparently, James only locked the outside slide bolt, and we have a couple mischief makers who know how to open it. He forgot to go in and lock it from the inside before we left. Somehow, the two opener goats got let into this part of the yard where they weren’t supposed to be. Ever. Partly because they also knock at doors and systematically attempt to figure out how to get into my garden.
Clearly, those two Houdinis were focused on a different objective that day. They didn’t even eat all the grain. I think they just mostly wanted to look around and see “how the other half lives.” Judging from the degree of mess, I’d say they spent a good chunk of their time in the living room, which had the air conditioning on. They seemed to really like that. All the larger, older goats were in there when we came in.
Considering there were about 28 head in the house for two hours or so, it wasn’t as bad as you’d think. My antique crystal glasses were right there on the end of the dining table, there were some delicate porcelain dolls in a glass case, and there were a couple of boxes of Christmas stuff untouched. The houseplants looked okay, too. All the dishes were in the dish rack, and even though I could see where they “inspected” the countertops, they didn’t break anything there.
They briefly got on James’ recliner but stayed off my old French velvet couch, where the three dogs were still holed up when I saw them, their little eyes wide as if to say, “Omg, Mom! You shoulda seen what a party the goats had!” I think the little dogs must’ve been mortified and barked them away from the couch, but it was sure funny how, when we opened the front door again to remove debris, the dogs could hardly wait to go outside.
But those two bucks with their giant racks of horns, wow. I mean, you’d think they’d have broken more. From the floors, I could see they were in there for a while. They even investigated the bathroom, and the pretty towels were in disarray and had what appeared to be lip marks. There was a single twotoed print on the bathroom wall. Appreciating the artwork, I can only imagine.
Wow. That’s all I can say. Didn’t see that one coming. By the way, have I mentioned how much I love my ancient, well-worn, cedar floors? I Threw a couple of buckets of Pine Sol water on it, used my power floor scrubber from the 1960s, and sucked it up with the wet dry.
Can’t do that with modern floors… I guess the moral of the story is: When your biggest worry is that the goats will get out when you’re away, you should also realize the equally frightening prospect is that they might, in fact, get in.
CAROLYN MENZIES has been a freelance writer, vet tech, caprine researcher and breeder of 7 breeds of mostly dairy goats for the past 25 years in Kansasland, and is also now level: Expert with a power floor scrubber.
Originally published in the Fall 2024 issue of Goat Journal and regularly vetted for accuracy.
