I got the dreaded phone call. The call that says we see "something" on your mammogram and need you to come back in and have another. I worried and awfulized. My husband worried and awfulized. He envisioned himself feeding all these animals and having to actually cook. You see, everyone around me is getting breast cancer and I just figured I was next. In my mind I put everything on hold. I didn't need to take on a buck at this time because, in my mind, I could be dead before he grew up. I wasn't afraid of dying........I'm afraid of chemo. If I am sick who would take care of all these critters. My hubby likes the animals and will feed for me but they are my thing not his. When it comes to worming, hoof trimming and shots...............let's just say they would have to be missing a leg and walking around on the bloody stump before he would notice.
So I subjected myself once again to the dreaded squeeze machine and waited nervously in the waiting room for my fate. They found nothing. I can live another year. Provided I am not killed by an angry pig getting it's hooves trimmed.
So what does any self respecting goat girl do? Buys a goat! We went right from the Dr. office to pick up the cutest little Nigerian buck you will ever lay eyes on. I had forgotten how tiny they are at 8 weeks.
In all the years (which is a lot) I have had goats I have never owned my own buck. They were just the smelly disgusting creatures the goat lady had in the back of her property. They usually had the worst pen on the place. I remember as a kid taking my doe to a buck housed in an old greenhouse, sans glass of course. I am now a true bonofide "goat lady."
I am positive this little guy will grow up to be just as smelly and disgusting as the rest but for now he has a cute dandelion fluff head and clean sweet little body.
Now he needs a name. Any suggestion?