Rachel Wise: When good goats go bad

Rachel Wise. Communities editor at Hawke's Bay Today. Staff. 31 March 2016 Hawke's Bay Today Photograph by Paul Taylor

In the immortal words of Britney Spears, "Oops I did it again".

The appearance of a goat in the paddock at home has been greeted with a resigned sigh by my long suffering husband, and no doubt palpitations and cold sweats by my neighbours, all of whom have very nice gardens.

I had sworn off goats, you see. Dreadful creatures with escapee habits and gargantuan appetites.

I'd been suckered into getting my first two, many years ago, by their friendly nature, soft furry noses and doe eyes, not to mention the fact my first two were milking goats and - you know, free milk.

It turned out, the free milk often had goat feet in it before I could snatch the bucket from under their flailing hooves, always had goat hair in it and didn't stop coming when you decided you had enough.

Like the magic porridge in the old school reading book it just kept on coming, filling the fridge, the dogs and cats, the freezer and the trough in the pig-pen.

The milk supply is meant to "dry off' in the winter but one of my old dears kept on providing for two years, making it very hard to get a house-sitter when wanting a holiday.

"Can you feed the cats?" Is usually an easy ask of a friend or neighbour. But ask them to milk the goat as well and they would suddenly be very, very busy that week.

But I didn't swear off goats - the first time - until the 5am call from a neighbour down the road alerting me to the presence of my two milking does in the other neighbour down the road's rose garden.

The rushed rescue mission (to whisk them away before the rose-owning neighbour woke up) resulted in ripped jeans (mine) from trying to surreptitiously climb their back fence, mud up to my waist (from falling in the drain trying to sneak the goats back down the road) and an irate phone call from the rose owning (rose-bush stump owning) neighbour who it turns out wasn't asleep in the first place.

Goats successfully rehomed, peace reigned until someone told someone else who told me they had two milking does - and kids - they wanted rid of.
Poor things, I thought.

Homeless and unwanted, I thought. All alone in a cold, heartless world. And, you know, free milk.

The honeymoon period ended with a call from the neighbour up the road ... my goat was in her kitchen. But it wasn't in any distress, she assured me, and its kid was happily asleep on her couch.

This was followed up within days by a call from next door "your goat is eating my greengages" and then on a walk into town I noticed suspiciously goat-ish poohs along the footpath not far from home.

Goats were moved right along to a home with fewer neighbours and hopefully better fences, and I swore off goats until I could afford at least a 10-foot high fence with razor wire on top.

However, recently my daughter suspected she, and my grand-daughter, were having an adverse reaction to cows' milk.

"Goats' milk is so expensive," she bemoaned.
Oh, no it isn't I said - all you need is a goat...

So far it's only got out into my own vege garden, and horse feed shed, and lawn. And stolen my horse's food right from his feed bucket, and the kids (she has two) have gnawed my horse's tail and dragged his rugs from where they were airing on the fence and gnawed them too.

There seems to be plenty to entertain them, for now, and the rose growing neighbour has moved and the one with the appealing kitchen has a couple of dogs who might prove handy should good goats go bad.

But just in case, I am buying a Lotto ticket each week because a 10-foot high fence with razor wire on top could still come in handy.