I got her home. She was very pretty. She was still milking a quart a day. And so on.
I put her in the electric-fenced pen I had set up (she’d been on electric fence previously, so I figured she was trained on it). Two strands. Not enough. Hindsight.
She was out within a minute. In a flash, she was across the road, into the woods. I chased. Through the woods, into the neighbor’s pasture we went, she all confused and surely frightened, I in my cowboy boots and straw hat. Back and forth through the field, I cut off her escape routes through fences time and again.
Taylor found us, bringing a bucket of corn. She wasn’t impressed. Under the fence, into the thicket, and by the time we could give pursuit, there was nary a sign of sweet goat. That was Tuesday. Wednesday morning I heard her bleating in the woods, but the thorny, humid Ozark forest hid her from me. I searched far and wide.
The neighbors know. So if she shows up, and eats all their rosebushes, they’ll call me.
It’s not so much the $75 I spent on her. It’s that crushing, deflating feeling of having wanted something so badly, having made big plans concerning it, and then having lost it nearly the moment you obtained it.
We’re still holding out small hopes. But I’m already thinking of buying another. Perhaps the first will come around if she hears/smells the second? I’m going to chain the new one to a tree.
If you see a brown and black goat with pretty eyes, tall horns, and full udders, please let me know.