Even Goats Can Be Bullies

It pains me to admit what I'm about to admit. We all want to believe that we are Cesar Milan. We want to believe that we have the secret to communicate with animals like no one else can. We want to believe that when we look an animal in the eye, whether it be dog or armadillo or goat, it understands that we love it and thus does exactly what we want it to do. Years of semi-intoxicated friends over for BBQ have proven this theory (and all most of them have to show for it is a dog bite).

My own dogs' unruly behavior should have tipped me off years ago that I am no Cesar, but pipe dreams die hard, and so I upped the pet ante with three 120 pound goats believing that my inner Cesar nature would transform them into veritable house pets within a few short weeks. Well, let me tell you something, sisters and brothers. If you think training a dog is hard, a goat will make you wish you'd never been born. 

We initially adopted three of these large ladies, and though they ignored us 100% of the time and busted through most of the fencing we put in place, they became fast family. I mean, real gems. And then, because if a little is good, a lot is awesome, we adopted three more mini-goats. (Please don't tell them I said that. They are quite sensitive about their status in the greater goat community.) These vertically-challenged, hollow-horned, bearded ruminant mammals max out at 30 pounds, which is a far cry from their 130 pound forced-siblings. But, again, when you think you're Cesar, what does size matter? So I threw them all together, the big ol' lover of family that I am, and waited for the magic to happen. And waited. And waited. I've been waiting so long now that my own mother confronted me with the following: "C.J., don't you think the little ones are taking quite a beating from the big ones? Please tell me you are going to do something about that." In my infinite Cesar wisdom, I replied, "Oh, mom, they're fine. That's the animal kingdom for you. They'll work it out in no time." Six months later, mom counters with, "Well, C.J., now Patrick is permanently limping and the little ones haven't gotten to eat a full meal in weeks." (This is because the large ladies pummel, charge, head-butt and trample anything that gets in their way of food. And the only things that get in their way are the pigmies.)

All this to say, I am ashamed to admit that my first attempt at a farm animal family has failed. I have ignited the fire signal for help. I am no Cesar; not with dogs and certainly not with goats. Out of my three large ladies, two of them have to go. They are bonafide bullies, and no amount of stretchy rubber bracelets is gonna change that.





That was four years ago. Just kidding; it was only three months ago.