Well, maybe not the Great Goat Escape. More like the Mediocre Goat Escape. There was no car chase, nor guns or explosions; no James Bond stunts or underwater scenes with a shark. What there was, however, was a large-ish goat eight feet up on the hay pile, pooping everywhere, and another large-ish goat with her innocent who-me face stuck deep in a grain bucket, also pooping everywhere, and a stall door hanging open, creaking slightly for effect.
Thankfully, we have most of the critter food in galvanized garbage cans with snug lids – originally to keep out the mice, but apparently also effective for goats. They can kill themselves by over-indulging in grain, or at the very least get extremely upset tummies and nasty vet bills. We used to set out the morning’s grain ration in the buckets the evening before, to save on under-caffeinated stumbling around at 6am, but no longer.
We still have not quite figured out how they managed to open the public-bathroom-type latch that holds their stall door shut. You know, the kind you have to lift, then slide. Must have been operator error, but out of two operators, two claim absolute innocence. I am certain it wasn’t me!
Now we do an extra round in the evening, just to make sure everyone is securely locked up. A goat looking down on you from ten feet, at six am, after only one cup of coffee, is just too disconcerting for words.