Flat Broke with Two Goats

by Jennifer McGaha

It was frustrating and demoralizing, a constant source of stress and strain. So since there was nothing we could do, we did nothing. Until we could reach settlement agreements for both the federal and state taxes, we were going to have to either go on with our lives or not. Those were our choices as I saw them. We could spend the rest of our lives being miserable—and still not free of the tax burden—or we could try to create the best lives we could under the circumstances while still hoping to settle our debts. In order to do that, I needed to do something new, something real, something that would soothe and strengthen my spirit. I needed to be ankle-deep in mud and goat poop, to sneeze incessantly from the scents of hay and straw, to have every shirt I own nibbled off at the hems. I needed to raise dairy goats.

Google. What a poor substitute for experience,

Now, with the life-and-death drama happening at the barn, we each staked out our own areas. David’s zone was outside the barn, next to Terry’s crate. My area was inside the barn, beside Ama. While I watched Ama, he watched Terry, which worked well until he decided to prop open the barn door so he could watch Ama and the chicken at the same time. “Stop!” I told him. “Leave it closed.” “Why?” “It’s bad luck for a pregnant goat to stare at a dying chicken.”

What was she telling them? Was she reassuring them? Wishing them safe passage? Urging them to hurry? Perhaps she was simply confiding to them that she was stuck in the barn with a crazy lady who kept staring at her vulva.

Prenatal Piña Coladas •1 1/2 ounces coconut cream •1 1/2 ounces pineapple juice •A few slices fresh pineapple •2 ounces Flor de Caña rum •1 cup ice Blend all ingredients in blender until smooth. Pour into tall, chilled glass. Drink in barn. Refuse to share with pregnant goat no matter how much she begs.

Though I adored my kids, I was often exhausted, mentally understimulated, emotionally spent, overwhelmed by my own offspring. Who are these alien creatures? Why do they keep following me around asking for food and water, expecting me to open their juice boxes and the tops of their squeezable yogurts? I sometimes wondered. And where on earth is the grown-up who is supposed to be taking care of them?

At first, Merle was quiet and affectionate and calm. However, twenty-four hours later, the barnyard turned into a high school classroom. Merle strutted around his section of the pasture, peeing on his beard and into his mouth, curling his lips, and making loud, gurgling sounds. He was a baboon—a goofy, goat baboon. And though he could not possibly have looked more ridiculous, the girls thought he was hotter than hot, a sexy, sweating, stinking football team captain.