Good Night!

Well, it’s official: I’ve got bottle babies. Because apparently, Genevieve has filed for early retirement—with benefits.

She gave motherhood the old college try for, oh, maybe 18 hours. Thought it was kind of neat at first—tiny creatures that looked like her, smelled vaguely of warm milk, and made cute noises. Adorable, right? But by day two, she’d figured out the dark truth:
They’re either starving, snuggling, or springing around like caffeinated popcorn kernels in a hot skillet. No breaks. No boundaries. No bathroom privacy.

So this morning, Genevieve marched up to the gate, looked me dead in the eye, and said, in no uncertain terms, “You. With the thumbs. Get me out of here.”

She is now back in the barn with her adult friends, blissfully unbothered and refusing to acknowledge she ever had children. If she could have slammed a door behind her, she would’ve. I even caught her humming.

Meanwhile, I’ve got two pint-sized squatters living in Roxy’s dog crate in the house, which they’ve converted into a goat AirBnB. They are tucked in, warm, and sleeping like they paid rent. And Roxy? She’s equal parts fascinated and insulted. She keeps checking on them like a worried big sister but can’t understand why they won’t play tag or let her join them in her own crate. I told her no hooves, no crate privileges. She's currently pouting and giving me side-eye.

So, two baby goats, one displaced dog, and a very relieved doe who’s pretending she’s single and child-free.

Good night from the madhouse. Wake me when they’re weaned.