Page 2: The adventures of goat boy

When I last wrote about my wife, she was escaping the clutches of law enforcement and rescuing goats from the Round Fire in February.

Soon after the fire, the pregnant goat, Borden, gave birth to a boy christened Spock by yours truly. Spock being a Vulcan, and Vulcan being the God of Fire … symbolic, right?

While I had brief visions of fattening up Spock for a feast of goat tacos, my wife, the protector of all living things, decided that our miracle goat would live – even though he is a male and thus promises to eat me into poverty for years to come.

After Spock was born, my wife traveled to Ridgecrest to acquire a newborn doe which she hoped to breed next year.

She brought back three. The protector of all living things …

Factor in Bob, the male we’d borrowed from Pete Del Giudice to keep Borden company during her pregnancy, and that makes six goats in the corral these days.

Last weekend, my wife travels to Rogue River, Oregon because she wants to visit a micro-dairy and learn more about the business of running a goat herd.

Who’s going to take care of the goats while you’re away? I ask innocently.

A short but telling pause provides the answer.

Now I’ve got to tell you, I was adamant, vocal and clear from the very outset about my lack of desire in participating in my own version of Goat Simulator (an actual online video game starring a goat – controlled by the player – whose goal is to do as much damage as possible to the world at large).

I had specifically declined to learn how to milk the goat, because if I learned how to milk the goat, then I’d have to take care of the goat.

But alas, pride and ultimatums are wonderful things to grasp onto in theory. In reality, it was milk the goat or divorce.

I chose to milk the goat.

Which is relatively simple to learn, but it takes a little practice to do well.

Anyway, before I go down to milk the goat on my own (among the list of goat chores) that first evening, I ask my daughter Belle to do a little online research. She confirms that a typical goat’s brain is 1/10th the size of a human brain.

Spock for Town Council!

1/10th? I think to myself. I can handle this.

My daughter follows me down to the goat pen with her GoPro camera. Mistake #1. Video replay might be nice in helping refine a golf swing, but it’s nothing but a liability for most other things. Just ask the cops. Video just means that the wife will be able to dissect my performance and thus offer “suggestions” for improvement.

Fortunately, we only have one goat to milk, and that goat is fairly docile provided you give her treats. Treat of choice? Animal crackers.

Basically, I milk her while I feed her dinner, and because the milking takes longer for me due to my general incompetence, I augment dinner with animal crackers to keep Borden occupied.

However, I notice over the course of the four days my wife is gone that Borden develops a habit of kicking up her left leg to disrupt the milking process. So I give her the animal crackers to distract her. The leg kicking becomes absurdly frequent. I come to the realization that the 1/10th brain is running laps around my own. She has trained me.

Lunch for President!