This Is What Happens To You When Your Husband Brings Home A Goat



For those of you who are enamored with Calico the Goat, I’ve changed his name to simply (I got very creative here) Goat or Goatie, so as to differentiate him from the call,“Dogs!”  He seems to think that, in the absence of other goats, he is part of the pack.

I’ve decided to hand over the sandbox since a goat who litter box trains himself to go (from one end, anyway) into a box strikes me as something possibly supernatural along the lines of a Unigoraffe.

I know it’s not Thursday but the signs are coming in so fast I just felt I had to tell someone.

This morning I was reading Facebook on my phone, thinking about some fairly alarming news that I’d recently heard, and I walked in the front door to realize something was very wrong. The Jack Russell was inside the house, barking. I left the dogs and the goat outside when I took the kids to school this morning and then went to the gym. That meant…for up to three hours THE GOAT WAS IN THE HOUSE.

While my husband has been out of the country for a few days, all Goat Duty has fallen on me. Typical, just like the children, everyone listens to him (he’s loud and he looks like he means it) and no one listens to me.

Goats eat cigarettes if they can because they innately know that it’s a natural dewormer.  Imagine a goat with his front paws on your table, his nose stuck in an ashtray, chewing.

During his absence the goat has taken to STANDING ON MY GLASS TABLE on the porch. The one with the laptops, the phones, the bottled water, the coffee, and my paper calendar where everything I do is stored.

I have been cleaning goat poop off my feet, goat poop off my sandals, and goat poop off every floor surface in the house because the cats decided to pee on the rugs by the door so there’s nothing stopping anyone from dragging it all in. The back door to my house opens approximately 350 times a day, so that’s a lot of feet wiping that may or may not happen.

The cats are in revolt because of the presence of the goat.  There is nothing quite like the joy of stepping in cat pee in the middle of the kitchen floor while all you want to do is to get a goat pellet off the bottom of your foot.

All eyes turn to the husband – the man who brought home the goat against your will and very explicit instructions.  The man who said if you were allergic he would bring it back, and when you did turn out to be allergic to the peanut hay that comes with the goat, still find yourself with a goat.  The man who, when he is here, does sweep all of the goat poop off the porch, but who has been out of the country for four days, leaving you in charge of the goat.  The man who was willing to spend $1.99 a minute plus tax to Verizon to inquire about how his maggot flies have been breeding, and had I bought and delivered to them adequate melon for them so that they could mate (they need the scent to do so, apparently).  The man who actually held on the line while you answered his request to count how many “large ones” there were, as opposed to the medium-sized ones, all the while holding your breath because maggot stuff smells in a way I really cannot describe or compare to anything else.

The sad part of this story is that I cannot even yell at my husband for bringing home this goat (or breeding maggots, even, which are part of a hydroponics experiment)  because he’s the one who goes to work every day, he’s the one who keeps us afloat, and I’m merely the one left here to clean up all the messes associated with two small boys, three dogs, three cats, two turtles, and a goat – and stay on Fly Duty in his absence. I can’t yell at him because, for one thing I like him, and for another, the trip was very stressful for him, so if I ever want him to want to come home again, I cannot very well start yelling or complaining about the goat the moment he walks in the door or really – ever.

There are just some things that husbands and wives do.  Well, some of us, anyway.

I thought it was okay for a while because, after all, I could always mop down the porch with bleach, until I discovered that I couldn’t.  The little pellets have gotten stuck in the boardwalk-like planks that make up the porch, and until they dry up and fall through I’m thinking adding water to this situation would not be the smart thing to do.

The other thing that had me somewhat on edge was that I had started seeing fives everywhere.  I am not a fan of the five.  Fives mean Massive Change.  There are moments when massive change can be a good thing, and I am always optimistic that since I believe the universe has my back, that all things (ultimately) work for good.  However, we had just wrapped up some long-term serious issues, or at least, we thought we had, when something else fairly significant popped up.  Then the news over the weekend called into question the first item.  In the interim, everywhere I went, it went from being a 5 here or there to 55 to 5:55 to $55.55.  Thankfully it has not escalated to $555.55 just yet but I did get a bill for $575 so who knows.

My intuition at this stage is practically screaming at me.

I went to the bathroom for a moment and when I was done washing my hands, this is what was staring at me from the counter, popping up for no reason from my intuitive friend Frances’ Intuition For Moms page:

be open


The look on my face must have finally meant business because the goat and the dogs all shut up at once and went to lay down or generally scattered – and they haven’t been fed as they usually are when I get home.

I spent 30 minutes sweeping goat poop and cigarette butts off the porch floor, picked up my coffee cup that had been sent flying, and sat down to write, because honestly I cannot face what may have happened inside my house in my absence.