The Day the Goats got in

"What?"  you say. "The goats got in?"  "Don't they always get out?"   Well, not my goats.   Not all the time anyway.

I was walking to the barn with milk bucket in hand to do my daily milking.    As with every morning I opened the barn doors and said, "Good Morning Girls!"  This morning was different.  The goats were all inside the barn running around.    I guess I should explain the lay out of our barn to you.   It is an old granary that has stalls (what use to be grain bins)  on each side.   The center of the barn is wide open.   The goats all are in the stalls  that are on the right and left of the barn.  The stalls all  have a gates that leads them to the outside.    The stalls also have half doors that lead to the main part of the barn.   The main area of the barn is not for the goats to stay in.     Anyway,  they had gotten the door to the main part of the barn open and were running amok.   So this morning I said, "Good Morning Girls, WHAT the HECK."  (that was putting it nicely)    So I commenced to chase the goats around trying to get them back to their stall.  When I say around I mean around and around and around.  It was kind of like musical chairs without the chairs.   There is me in my farm girl dress and flip flops chasing a wild herd of goats.   To add to the excitement a couple chickens joined is cackling and flapping around wildly.    One of the hens, being a smart chick, jumped up on the gate for a better view of the goings on.    However, she just so happened to be sitting on the gate I needed to open.
 I figured when I opened the gate she would jump down and get out of the way.    So I flung it open to let all the goats run in and instead of jumping down she jumped on my head.   Now I am standing there with a chicken that has no intention of moving.   Not willing to stop and deal with the chicken I commenced running the goats into the stall.   If you have ever been privileged enough to herd goats you will understand exactly how imperative it was to keep the goats moving in the right direction.     You would think that the chicken would eventually decide the my head as a perch was not optimal.  By the time I was done rounding up goats, the chicken had her feet so wound up in my hair I though that she was a permanent hair accessory.    I finally got the chicken removed from my head and went into the milk parlor and started milking.    My daughter Arielle (the daughter who is deathly afraid of chickens)  came in the barn to chat  (something she does every morning in the summer) looked at me and said, "Mom, What happened to your hair?"  My reply was I had a chicken stuck in it.   "WHAT??????????????"  She turned around and left the barn.   I guess she figured all her fears of chickens was coming true.................................

Nebraska Prairie Girl


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