Sophie as a baby
I have turned the sweetest fainting goat in the free world into something spawned of Hell or at least one of Satan’s minions. Overnight and quite unintentionally. It’s not very often that Sophie and I disagree. When we do, I’ve come to the realization and acceptance that it’s not very EVER that I’m going to come out on top. Even the horses have gotten to a point that they will allow her to snitch grain from the field pan because she’s conditioned them to know they will lose more than they gain trying to foil her efforts.
Even so, it is painful to admit you have gotten your ass kicked by a creature who doesn’t even reach your knees. Wounds the pride.
This morning the new lamb (christened Radar Ears by the manchild) was doing well enough we felt comfortable moving him to the barn. So I let him out of the Great Dane sized crate in the mudroom and opened the door to glorious freedom (and fresh air, thankyouJesus because a crated lamb and two caged ferrets in an enclosed space overnight can create smells near blindingly unpleasant) so he could meet Sophie the goat, and we could see how she was going to react. Wrong answer. Sophie affected a goat snarl I have never seen on her formerly precious face and makes it clear from very the start that the fuzzy interloper was unwelcome at best.
What followed was nothing short of pure slapstick comedy, as she chased that poor lamb in circles around me and my knees were used as a trench in the the business of caprine warfare. There was much baaing and grunting and bleating, This was still a little amusing but the walk to the barn right behind the house now quickly took on comparison to a half-marathon. If Sophie could talk, I doubt most of whatever she was saying would have been fit for public sharing.
T and I had anticipated a little resistance, so we had set up a fresh crate in the barn where we could allow some interspecies meet and greet without danger of injury. I installed the lamb in the new digs and closed the door, without a bottle, much to his disappointment. So now he’s crying. I turned my back for approximately 14 seconds to gather an armful of fresh hay for the baby, and Sophie used the time to back up, lower her head and butt the living bejesus out of the metal crate so hard it rocked up off the ground a good six inches.
I outweigh Soph by a good hundred pounds, so I yelled “HEY” in my scariest goatmama voice, put the sole of my tennis shoe on her hindquarters and gave her a spirited shove to let her know this behavior was unacceptable and wouldn’t be tolerated. ***Disclaimer: I DID NOT KICK THE GOAT, please limit the hate mail to one per visitor, my circular file is small and requires frequent emptying ***
Then, for the first time in her little goaty life, she lowered that same head and her little weeble body on hooves and came at me with the force of a furry freight train. Almost knocked me flat on my rump.
I yelled. Screamed, really. I cussed her out in grand and colorful fashion, and apparently scarily enough that it triggered her fainting reflex so now her back leg muscles are locked up, and she falls over her own feet and is now rolling helplessly on the barn floor. Now I’m laughing at her, and I’ve pierced her dignity. And I’ve lost all the steam in my mad.
You win again, Sophie.