One of my mother-in-law’s goats has had quadruplets. This is good news for my mother-in-law, but tough if you happen to be a kid goat. They are a rare delicacy here and I imagine that at least one of them will end up in the pot with green olives and rice (not my pot mind you).
She (we) keeps at least two goats at a time. She milks them twice a day and makes a small amount of wonderful cheese. Now, don’t get me wrong – I like goats, they have character, but I also happen to think that they are the slyest creatures on earth. Born troublemakers, if you prefer.
They sleep and eat in the sheep barn, but during the day they are free to roam with their extended family and can often be seen around the farm. They prowl the premises with a permanent glint in their eyes that suggests mischief; and just like my children, I suspect that they often wait until nobody is looking to see what they can get up to.
During apple picking, they have been known to nibble the apples. Not the small or misshapen apples, but the prime, pre-graded, pre-packed ones in trays, that are already on palettes awaiting the arrival of the lorry to take them to the customer.
On another occasion, they managed to nudge open the trapdoor of one of the silos and partially emptied it in their quest to get at the grain inside. The silos are now barricaded with more fencing than Alcatraz.
What sticks in my memory however, is the “garden incident”. Having planted all my newly bought treasures from the garden centre, including a small rustic palm tree, I came home the next day to find carnage. My geraniums and other flowers had been beheaded or worse and my precious palm tree had been reduced to a brown stump, never to recover.
The goats seemed to find this hilarious and as I shooed them out of the garden, I vowed that one day I would have my revenge. Revenge is supposed to be a dish best eaten cold. But maybe not THAT dish thank you very much!