When I was young and had my whole future ahead of me, I’m not sure you could have convinced me that my future would include trying to figure out how to halter-break a goat. 

Or, specifically two goats, one named Beef and one named Noodles. 

Why are they named Beef and Noodles? Well, while I was away, our friend, who raises goats, was on the phone with my husband making plans to bring over a dish his wife made for them. When Rosie inquired about the phone call, Chad replied, “It was Brett, he’s bringing over beef and noodles.” Rosie thought those were the names of the 4-H goats he was going to deliver.  She was surprised when it was actually supper. But the names stuck. 

“My life is weird,” I thought to myself when filling out the paperwork for the fair. Under “Goat Name” I wrote “Beef.”

Anyway, come to find out Beef is a little squirrely, of course. There’s always one in the pen, and it isn’t Noodles and it isn’t the bottle calf we keep with them.

It’s Beef. Beef is not having it. 

“Help!” I hollered at my husband, waving my hands and looking desperate in my shorts and muck boots as he drove slow past the pen where the girls and I just spent ten minutes trying to catch Beef so we could work on making him love us (or at least tolerate us) all while the bottle calf followed behind, head butting us and trying to suck on my shorts. My usual trick of cornering Beef behind the shed was NOT working anymore, because goats are dumb except when it comes to figuring out how to escape. And have you ever had a half-grown goat named Beef try to leap over your head? There aren’t enough cuss words in the world. 

Anyway, it’s no wonder Chad was trying to sneak out of the yard unassumingly. From the road, I think he could see the sweat rolling off my forehead and the steam shooting out my ears, so he stopped. And you would think that a little help would boost my spirits, but the fact that the man walked right up to Beef and just, ‘poof,’ lifted that medium-big goat up off the ground by its armpits like he was a kitten sent me to a dark place that only goats can send you. 

But any good 4-H mom knows that there’s no time for rage in this game, so I sucked it up and helped the girls get their animals out of the pen for a little stroll around the yard. Noodles and her halo followed sweetly behind Rosie, stopping to chomp a few dandelions and jumping a little as they strolled down the hill. 

Beef, on the other hand, just laid down. And then got up, took a few steps and then laid down again. And then got up. And laid down and then rolled over, which was new.  And then laid down and cried the cry of the death. And then got up. And then laid down again and on and on like this around the loop until we were all sweating. 

And laughing, because it’s a roller coaster of emotions around here.  

We brought the goats back to the pens and loved on them a bit before throwing them their feed and heading up to the house to feed ourselves. It’s summer, and it was still hot at 9 pm, which if we can all recall, is about the time we start supper in the summer. How quickly the schedule shifts. How quickly it all goes. 

The fair is coming up soon, and we have about two weeks to convince Beef that walks are a good thing. The fifteen-year-old version of me, who chased goats only to tie their legs up in the practice pen and at local high school rodeos would be surprised at this turn of events, but she wouldn’t hate it. I mean, she once took care of a baby goat name Filipe over Christmas break when she was eleven. She put him in diapers and let him sleep in her room. 

I forgot about that. 

I guess I have always been who I am…