I closed my eyes for a twenty-minute nap on the couch, only to be awakened fifteen minutes later by a blood-curdling scream directly outside the window behind me. But as frightened as I was, I was completely disoriented and didn’t want to risk motion.
The sound came again, this time closer. I slowly crept to the window and peeked out the corner of the glass. There in front of me stood a baby goat, whom I shall call Kid for the purposes of not having to call him “baby goat.”
If I had watched that video of the screaming goat singing Taylor Swift, I would have known what the horrific sound was. But I hadn’t, and thus I was completely surprised by the sheer volume of noise coming from the tiny creature.
I had recently moved into a house on a goat farm. Kid had snuck under my fence to eat the rather long grass in my yard and couldn’t figure out how to get back. The mother goat had long since headed into the barn for the night, apparently deciding that if ol’ Kid wouldn’t listen to her about staying on their side of the fence, he could deal with the consequences all by himself.
I put on my shoes and headed out to the backyard to help him out. I untied the knotted twine on the gate, pushed it open to the goat pasture, and stood aside, waiting for Kid to run happily home to his mama. Instead, he stood stock-still in the middle of my yard and continued to yell. I walked toward him to help herd him toward the pasture.
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