The New Girls

We have new additions to the farm. I’d like to tell you they came in with grace and poise, immediately befriended everyone, and settled in like they’d always lived here. But I’d also like to tell you my goats never break into the garden, my dogs never roll in chicken poop, and my pigs are dainty eaters who use napkins.

Let’s be real.

The New Girls arrived a few days ago, wide-eyed, trembling, and plastered so tightly into the corner of the pen I had to double-check that I didn’t accidentally adopt goat-shaped wall art. They were completely convinced I was a mountain lion, the hay was poisoned, and the Great Pyrenees standing politely outside their pen was a woolly death beast sent to finish what the trailer ride started.
By day two, things had improved—slightly. They emerged from the corner just long enough to fling themselves into the opposite corner when I walked by. I offered hay. They sniffed it like I was handing them an IRS audit. I tried sweet talk. They blinked at me like I was speaking ancient Sumerian. I even played the goat version of peace offerings: raisins. They acted like I’d just hurled goat grenades.
But this morning… this morning, the tide turned.

I opened the barn door and there they were—standing front and center like small, fuzzy revolutionaries who’d overthrown their anxiety and installed a new regime based on snacks and entitlement.

“Excuse us, New Mom. We have some thoughts.”

Apparently, overnight they had discovered 1) the feeder, 2) how to empty it, and 3) that I am the human who brings the food, therefore I am their new favorite person, until proven otherwise.

“We understand that when we arrived we were a bit… unapproachable. A little shy. A touch dramatic, maybe. But we’ve done some soul-searching, and we’ve decided that your farm isn’t trying to kill us. In fact, we rather like it here. The hay is tasty, the ambiance rustic, and the entertainment top-notch—especially that fluffy white dog who keeps doing perimeter laps like he’s training for the Barnyard Olympics.”

“Also—and this is important—this feeder is currently empty. Bone dry. Not a hay stem in sight. And while we appreciate the midnight buffet you accidentally left out, we assumed breakfast would follow shortly. It’s now 6:07 a.m. and we’re frankly appalled. What sort of establishment are you running here?”

I gave them a fresh flake of hay and they dove in like goats possessed. Ten minutes later, they had hay in their ears, their eyes, their water bucket, and somehow even on my boots. One tried to eat my jacket. The other bleated at a passing chicken like she was placing an order.

After their gourmet hay binge, they sauntered up to the dividing fence, side-eyeing the rest of the herd like mean girls scoping out the high school cafeteria.

“Those are the others? Hmmm. Bit rough around the edges, but we’re confident we’ll be running the place by next week.”

They’ve clearly decided they’re ready for integration. I'm still deciding whether the rest of the crew is ready for them. Because if their current attitudes are any indication, they’ll have the herd organized, the grain ration renegotiated, and union benefits drafted before the weekend.

So, welcome to the farm, girls. You’ve gone from terrified little wallflowers to pint-sized prima donnas in under 72 hours. Congratulations. You're going to fit in just fine.

Now excuse me while I go refill your feeder again, Your Royal Goats-nesses. Heaven forbid anyone on this farm has to wait more than 30 seconds for second breakfast.

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