Story by Heather McShea
There are days when I question the management decisions around here. Not my management decisions, obviously. I’m referring to the humans.
When we first got goats, I was told they were “part of the homestead.”
Fine. I accepted this. Well… eventually.
I have livestock experience. I have protected the property from predators, supervised chickens, managed Jax, negotiated disputes with Barbara, and survived the arrival of Winnie Wrecks. I can handle more goats. Or so I thought.
Then I found out the goats have a job. Apparently, the neighbors have been borrowing them to eat their grass and weeds.
At first, I assumed they were taking them for a play date, giving me a well-deserved break. Apparently, the goats are now officially being hired out as freelancing weed-eaters.
They failed to mention that I was included in this arrangement. I’m sorry. They have employment? And they get transported to their jobs?
I’ve been guarding livestock for years and nobody has ever offered me a Lyft. Or mileage reimbursement. Or even a snack.
The goats, meanwhile, get loaded up, transported to their job site, turned loose, and told to eat. That’s it.
They show up to work, eat everything in sight, wander around, climb on things, yell at each other, and apparently consider this a productive workday.
Have you heard goats yell? It sounds like a disturbed human. Imagine a grown man screaming from another room. Now give him hooves.
They don’t just make a nice, polite little maaah.
They announce things.
MAAAAAH!
One starts.
MAAAAAH!
Another answers from fifty feet away.
Then suddenly everyone has something to say. It’s like being trapped in a town hall meeting where everyone is yelling and nobody knows what the meeting is about. The whole thing becomes an unbearable cacophony.
Sets off my involuntary noise-sensitivity bark alert.
I don’t know what they’re yelling about, but clearly, it’s urgent.
If eating was a job, I’d sign up full time.
As long as it’s not grass. I’m a dog. (I know where that road leads. The sequel was unpleasant.)
Or anything chickens eat. I have standards.
Their assignment is simple: eat the grass and weeds. You would think this would be a straightforward operation.
It is not.
Because goats have apparently decided that the ground is merely a suggestion.
They walk on top of things. Logs. Rocks. Equipment. And fences. Especially fences.
I have spent my entire career understanding the basic concept of a fence.
Fence = boundary.
Goat sees fence.
Goat thinks: excellent, a walking platform.
There they are, casually balancing on the top rail like tiny, four-legged circus performers while I stand below wondering why I am the only one taking this job seriously.
I bark. “Get to work!”
They look at me.
I bark again.
They continue tight roping.
One of them actually walked along the top of the fence, stopped, side-eyed me, and continued on his way.
I’m fairly certain he was showing off.
I have never seen an animal so committed to ignoring the ground.
The goats also gossip.
I don’t know what they’re saying, but I know they’re saying something.
They gather together, chew thoughtfully, stare at me, and then one of them says,
“Maaah.”
Another one answers.
Then three more join in.
This goes on for several minutes.
I have no idea what the subject is, but judging by the looks I’m getting, I’m pretty sure it’s me.
Barbara says they’re trouble. Barbara says this about everyone. Including me. To my face!
I reminded her that she’s an emu.
She reminded me that she is still taller than I am.
We remain in disagreement.
Naturally, Jax thinks the goats are fantastic. He has decided they are his new employees. He runs around them, gets them excited, then looks at me like he has just successfully completed a management seminar.
He has not. He has actually made my job harder.
And then there’s Winnie Wrecks.
Those poor chickens are still holding flying lessons, determined to figure out how to fly the coop.
Winnie calls this “play.” The chickens call it “a developing security situation.”
My official duties now include livestock supervision, perimeter security, goat transportation safety, goat wrangling, chicken monitoring, predator detection, and intervening in whatever it is Winnie Wrecks is doing at any given moment.
Nobody asked me if I wanted this expanded job description.
Nobody discussed compensation. Nobody even offered dental. So, for the record, if humans offer you a job involving ride share with livestock, ask about compensation before accepting.
They do leave the window down in the car, that’s nice, but I recommend bacon. We don’t have a resident pig here, so I can say that.
The good news is that the goats are surprisingly effective at their job. They clear the grass. They eat the weeds. They cover ground. And somehow, despite their complete disregard for fences, boundaries, instructions, gravity, or my professional opinion, they get the job done.
Which means I have to admit something. I may actually be proud of these oddballs.
I hate that for me.
Don’t tell them. They already have enough confidence.
And me? I’ll be over here doing what I always do.
Watching.
Guarding.
Supervising.
Driving livestock to work.
And wondering how a Great Pyrenees with an impeccable résumé ended up as middle management for a group of freelancing weed-eaters.
Advice for Dogs and Dogs Only: Never let a goat outrank you. Demand bacon.
Leo, (Still the alpha. Barely. And apparently not the CEO.)
Loosely based on some true working-canine events, filtered through Leo’s “couch-potato” lens.
