Goodbye Kisses

 

The day began like every other morning on the homestead:
– Roll out of bed like a half-frozen cinnamon roll
– Let the dogs out before they form a mutiny
– Fire up the woodstove so my fingers don't snap off
– Dress in enough layers to resemble an overstuffed scarecrow
– Stomp out to the barn looking like I’m about to summit Everest

Then came the usual chorus line of breakfast demands: The horse wanted hay, the goats wanted hay, the chickens wanted grain, the dogs wanted justice and snacks, and everyone wanted water delivered faster than a five-star hotel. I collected eggs, washed eggs, stripped off 37 pounds of clothing, and finally managed to get something into my stomach besides goat hair and regrets.

But by 11 a.m., the script changed.

We hitched up the horse trailer, loaded up the ladies (that’s “does” to those of you still thinking goats are only for petting zoos), and headed off to deliver them to their new home.

I’d been putting it off. Pretending it wasn’t happening. Lying to myself with things like, “They’ll be fine,” and “I’m totally okay with this,” and “I didn’t emotionally imprint on a bunch of small barnyard divas who routinely chew on my coat and scream at me.”

Yeah. Lies. All lies.

Once we got them settled into their new digs, I knelt down to say goodbye.

Cue the goat farewell parade.

If you’ve never been kissed by a goat, imagine being mobbed by toddlers who just ate licorice and want to tell you secrets. One nibbled my hair like she was checking for split ends. Another helpfully tried to “fix” my jacket by eating the zipper. A third just stood on my foot like, “If I can’t come home with you, I’m at least going to cripple you.”

They all tried to get in my face at once, which is sweet unless you’ve ever been simultaneously headbutted in the jaw and sneezed on by something that eats hay and poops marbles.

I hugged them all. They tugged on my heart. And also my pockets, my braid, and the string on my hoodie.

I miss them already.

But here’s the silver lining—I’ll be getting three of their babies back next summer. Because apparently, I can’t stop. I’ve tried goat rehab. Doesn’t work. I have a brush-clearing addiction, and goats are my enablers.

Besides, without them, I’m one rainy season away from being swallowed whole by blackberry bushes and saplings. My land would go from “homestead” to “wildlife documentary set” in a matter of weeks.

So this isn’t goodbye. It’s just “see you later.” Go forth, my little hay-devouring weirdos. I’ll see your mini-me’s soon enough.

In the meantime… the buck is still here.

And he is not handling this well.

He is standing by the gate like a heartbroken country singer. Moaning. Groaning. Letting out sounds that can only be described as “goat wailing” with a side of “emotional collapse.” If I gave him a microphone and a glass of bourbon, he could record a breakup album that would make grown men weep into their flannel.

He’s refusing to eat, which for a goat is the equivalent of a full mental breakdown. If he starts writing sad poetry in the dust or sighing dramatically while staring at their old pen, I’m calling in a therapist.

Hang in there, Romeo. The next goat chapter is just around the corner.

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