Clare Boothe Luce once said, “No good deed goes unpunished.” And while I’m sure she meant it in some deep, philosophical way about the human condition, I’m convinced she was secretly talking about farm life. Because the last time I tried to “help” a friend, I ended up with what can only be described as a hoof-shaped exclamation point right between my eyes.
Yes. A goat kicked me. In the face.
Before you send flowers or start a GoFundMe for my reconstructive surgery, let me clarify—it wasn’t intentional. And it wasn’t a human foot, thank heavens, although honestly, I might have preferred that at this point.
It all began when my friend Elaine needed help trimming her goats’ feet. Naturally, I volunteered. Why? Because apparently, I have a subconscious death wish and an overinflated sense of my own goat-wrangling skills. This is the same kind of misplaced confidence that brought you my Sheep Wrangling saga. Basically, I am the Lucille Ball of livestock.
The problem was one particular yearling who could have been drafted for the NFL—specifically as a running back for the New England Patriots. This goat was faster than a caffeine-addicted squirrel, zigzagging around the barn like she was avoiding sniper fire. We chased her for several minutes, which was ridiculous because Elaine and I were both hovering around 70, and the only marathons we run are when the bathroom is on the far end of the hallway.
After five minutes of wheezing and mutual glaring, I decided to get clever. My plan—if you could call it that—was to grab her back leg the next time she zipped by, hold on tight, and stop her dead in her tracks. Logical, right? Safe? Reasonable? HA!
The goat flew by, I reached out, grabbed her leg—and instantly found myself in a goat-powered drag race. My boots were skidding, my free arm was flailing, and for a few seconds I was basically water-skiing across the barn floor without the benefit of water. Then she stumbled and fell, taking me down with her. Then WHAM—her other leg came around like a steel-toed missile and clocked me square between the eyes.
And not just a light tap. No, ma’am. This was a Looney Tunes knockout punch. Stars. Fireworks. Possibly the sound of distant church bells. If Thor’s hammer had a baby with a pogo stick, that’s what hit me.
Did I let go? Of course not. This is the Sandy way: hang on until you either win or have to be airlifted out.
Two senior citizens. One goat. And a victory dance (ours) that was mostly just us leaning on the barn wall trying to catch our breath.
After my face
re-inflated to its original shape, I started laughing so hard I
nearly fell over. Because if you’ve never seen two out-of-breath,
borderline decrepit old women wrestle a goat, you’re missing out on
the greatest slapstick comedy ever performed. Someone needs to follow
me around with a camera—we’d have a reality show in no time: Goat
Takedown: The Senior Edition.
In the end, the goats’ feet got trimmed (because we’re nothing if not professionals), and my face now has a great story attached to it. Will I help Elaine again? Absolutely. Because if I survived this, the next time will obviously be fine.
Probably.
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