Like plenty of men, I ended up with goats because my wife wanted them. I thought they’d be her animals. Turns out, they’re mine now. Figures, doesn’t it?
Most mornings I head out with a bucket, and The Boys are already lined up like I’m late to their gig. They know the sound of boots on gravel, and they know I’ll give in. Truth is, they’ve got me trained better than I’ve got them. That’s marriage for you—one way or another, you learn who’s in charge.
Paul struts like he owns the parish. Patchy coat, steady eyes, doesn’t shove, doesn’t brag, but the others follow anyway. Watching him, I see the part of myself that had to grow up too fast. The one that learned to hold things together when no one else did. Paul reminds me leadership doesn’t always need to be heavy. Sometimes it’s just standing steady and letting others catch their balance.
John’s the wild one. Always poking at fence boards, tipping buckets just to see what’ll happen. He’s mischief on four legs. But he’s also the only one who presses his nose against my cheek like he means it. That mix of wild and tender—I know it. Years of testing rules, years of laughing when I see that same spark in my students. John reminds me pushback isn’t always trouble. Sometimes it’s just life looking for its own rhythm.
And then George-Ringo. Black and white, quiet, happy to nap in the shade while the world sorts itself out. He’s got the art of doing nothing down to perfection. Watching him makes me realize how little of that I gave myself growing up. Maybe that’s why I bring the guitar into the pasture sometimes. Not to perform, just to breathe. George-Ringo shows me that rest isn’t laziness. It’s medicine.
Here’s what folks miss when they think goats are nothing but trouble: they’re loving to the core. To them, I’m not “Keith.” I’m “Daaa.” Their voices carry across the pasture, and no matter what else is happening, they come running. When I sit down, they press close. Heads on my knees, warm bodies leaning against me. Sometimes they even try to climb into my lap like oversized house pets. They don’t ask for much. Just your presence. And in return, they give you theirs completely.
I’ve patched more fences than I can count. Hammer in a new board, turn my back for one second, and there’s John giving it a proper inspection. Meanwhile Paul stands steady, and George-Ringo stretches out in the shade as if to say, “Good luck, Daaa.” At this point, it’s routine. Though between you and me, I’m still not sure who thinks they’re in charge.
And still, I stay longer than I plan. Lean on the gate. Watch them. Paul pacing, John scheming, George-Ringo napping. Sometimes I play a few chords. They don’t care about the tune. They care that I’m there. Which is funny, really. Because I thought the goats were my wife’s idea. Turns out they’re my teachers.
Lesson learned: never underestimate animals—or your wife.