Goat Milking Triple Play

The sun was still a couple of hours from its decline over the horizon. The flies were in full frenzy. And the next-door neighbor was perched upon his mower--a nightly ritual--to trim another quadrant of his vast yard.

I swung the metal goat milking pail in my right hand as the farmer's wife poured grain into the green bucket to feed the goats as we milked them. We wore baseball caps to keep the bugs from our eyes and squirted some sanitizer on our hands. We were set for success. 

The gate opened and two of our friends escaped. We didn't panic. One went straight for the grain; the other stood aloof and contemplated which clump of it's-always-tastier-on-the-other-side-of-the-fence grass to chomp first . 

We needed to return one goat to the pasture in order to milk without stress.

Fortunately, the farmer's wife is an experienced goat handler--well at least a couple months more than me. She quickly fit a rope around the the snaggle horned white goat's head and coaxed her back into the pasture. Phew!

The multicolored goat raced to the wooden milking stand; I shut the headpiece to keep her still and we started to milk her.

That goat's milk bag was still a third full when she decided to pull her head from the headpiece, stomp her foot in the milk pail and make her second escape of the evening.

It's not the first time this happened, but the lead rope was still around the other goat's neck in the pasture and this goat had decided the grain no longer suited her refined taste. She casually chomped grass and cleverly played a game of side-step and run as we attempted to catch her. 

An occasional rooster crow broke our thoughts as we stood still for a moment and contemplated strategies of capture. 

I walked a wide circle around the goat and moved with an uneven booted foot swagger in a zigzag pattern to lead her to the farmer's wife who stood poised with the rope on the other side of the trailer, which stood between the milking station and the fence. I thought if we lured the goat between those barriers, my friend could lasso her.

The goat got close to my milking partner, but darted again. We tried a few rumbly shakes of the grain bucket to no avail.

A short time passed before we resorted again to the grain and the finicky goat decided she'd like another tiny nibble. Like a football player and streak of lightening, my farm friend tackled that sweet little animal to the ground. I roped the squirmy runaway while the goat wrangler raised her arms in victory like we had just scored a touchdown for the home team--which we definitely did. 

Meanwhile, the neighbor watched. I saw his profile when my friend went down for the sack. The 78-year-old lifelong country man outfitted in a white cutoff muscle shirt that exposed his tanned arms pumped his gnarled fists in the air in solidarity, and laughed as he rode off on his mower.

We were equally amused by him and joined the crow of the roosters.

Next, we milked the second goat not even half way before she also stuck her foot in the bucket and backed off the milking stand for some tasty grass --she was smartly roped, however, and didn't go far.

Just for fun, we milked a third goat that we don't normally milk because she still nurses her kids. And just like the adage "third time's the charm" she stuck her foot in the pail.

There's no need for a football forearm workout when one's a goat milker. But a victory dance is quite appropriate when all the animals are back behind the locked fence --even if there's no milk.