Josephine and I spent some time in the goat pasture today. Me hunting thistles, her playing pasture games, the goats following us around hoping to get some new weeds out of the deal. I cleared out the thistles in the main goat pen, and since Josephine was having fun, I decided to walk the small pasture next to the goat pasture (which is currently open to the horses) looking for more thistles.
-an aside: I have a clear view of Josephine from both pastures and we have calm friendly goats, so I didn’t feel neglectful, however this story may sound slightly neglectfulish-
About halfway through my thistle hunt I looked up as Josephine was scooping water out of the goat trough into her mouth! HER MOUTH! I yelled, “NO! STOP!”, which I guess I yell too much, because she looked up casually and said, “What, Mama?” as I ran toward her. Now, here’s where it gets even more interesting.
I have been wearing Taylor’s dad’s old size 12 Wolverine work boots so as to protect the bottom of my feet from bruises while I viciously dig up thistles. They are, however, a tad too big for my feet. See:
Anyways, as I sprinted across the pasture towards my goat water drinking two year old, I flung open the pasture gate and immediately tripped over said giant boots, falling on my left knee pretty freaking hard. As I fell, Duck (the goat) took her opportunity to leap over me out of the open gate into the horse pasture. Awesome. I jumped up, slammed the gate (as Billy (the goat) was hastily trying to make his escape and Giselle (the Pygmy goat) was hot on his heals), explained to Josephine that that water was yucky, contained tiny ugly germs (thanks Yo Gabba!) that could make her sick, and told her to keep her hands out of the water, or else (or else what, I don’t know).
Quickly, I turned my attention to the goat in the horse pasture and headed back out to wrangle Duck back in. As you may have guessed, Duck was quite reluctant to be captured and returned to her own pasture, so I chased her around for entirely too long (all the while keeping one eye on my disgusting, cute child to make sure no more goat water was imbibed) before I finally outsmarted her and forced her back to her home. All the while in giant shoes, tripping here and there, on a hurt knee.
And so there it is folks. My kid drank goat trough water and my knee is battered and bruised (and really hurts a whole lot). If anyone wants to buy me some ranch boots in a (clumsy) ladies size 10, I’d be much obliged. Or if you want to go halves with Taylor on taking out some life insurance on me, I’m sure he’d split the profits when I break my damn neck and die. Oh, country life.
At least the three stooges are all in their places with weed eating faces.
And who would want to leave this pasture, anyways? Foolish goats.
lazy to living 