I've always been a "collector" of animals. I call myself a collector rather than a rancher or farmer because I have never truly made a dime at any of my profit adventures involving four hooves or feathers. It's OK though, because I love animals and so do my kids. Hubby, on the other hand, has a mild disdain for most creatures, including the one-horned goat who feels the need to exert his dominance whenever hubby is in the picture. And this is where my story begins...

It was a freezing cold February morning when Chico was born into the world. He was a small white bundle of fur with floppy brown ears and little knobby horns. Shortly after his birth, a higher power had other plans for his mother, leaving him an orphaned "kid." As circumstances go, Chico was later found roaming the streets when he was about a month old, and $20 later (to pay for the huge bag of formula - first indicator that this was going to be a problem), he began his life as my fourth "kid." I have been told numerous times in the past that nothing is ever entirely free in life - there is always a catch whether it is further financial costs or other burdens. Chico came with the burden of being a baby, a baby that liked to nurse from a bottle four times a day, engorging himself more like a piglet than a kid.

Hubby and I had previously spoken about getting a goat to tackle our briar problems but I don't necessarily think we were on the same page as to the type of goat we were looking for. Ultimately, Chico found his way tucked into a warm blanket on our front porch when hubby was at work. When hubby got home that night, I secretly watched him through the window and saw the immediate scowl. As he walked through the front door, muttering some expletives that cost him several dollars in the "cussing jar," I introduced him;

"Honey, this is Chico. He's going to be living with us for the next 10 years or so."

Initially, I received a million promises from my oldest two that they would be doing all the nursing sessions and any clean-up associated with little "Cheekies" (a name he earned due to the plump rump he quickly grew). Seriously, how much of a mess can a 12 lb. goat create? As Chico's 16 ounce Pepsi bottle quickly turned into a huge 32 oz. calf bottle, we learned that the messes were endless; nursing sessions meant that the front porch and caregiver would be covered in a slime of formula and spit, combined with whatever else wanted to come from the other end or middle (my kids, by the way, were amazed that Chico peed from his belly).

And then there was the issue of castration. Chico had received the "little green rubber band" treatment prior to entering our home, so I knew that "It" was going to fall off sooner or later. I was just hoping that my older two wouldn't ask too many questions on why Chico chose to wear rubber band jewelry at such a young age. Approximately two weeks into our relationship with Chico, Tater-bug ran screaming into the house, clutching a little white bundle of fur, or should I say "sack" of fur. Through the hysteria and sobbing, I was able to determine that she believed that her baby goat was falling apart and that she had the evidence to prove it. I inspected the item in her hand, verifying it was Chico's last sense of manhood, and quietly told her that Chico was going to be fine. She looked at my strangely, angry that I wasn't concerned of his impending doom. It was then I reminded her of the little green rubber band and what it had been latched onto. In one move and scream, she yelled, "You mean I'm holding his balls?!" and threw Chico's pride off the front porch. I corrected her word usage with a mild scolding and then thoroughly washed her hands, all the while laughing to myself and trying to remember details for hubby. It was then that we had a very mild and subdued talk about why baby boy goats do not need that part of their anatomy in order to live happily (and much less stinky) ever after.

We nursed Chico for six months (way longer than we needed to but he was insistent with that cute little face) and learned a ton through the process. For example, goats can projectile vomit - particularly when they know that you just washed your car. Too much alfalfa is not a good thing no matter how happy he looks, because it certainly does not smell nice nor look pretty when it's flying out of his cute little mouth at 3AM. Also, no matter how much he professes to love dog food and chicken scratch, it is not good for him. Two trips to the vet for kidney stones and bloat say so.

You may be surprised to learn that Chico continues to live a happy life with us, although he is now a year old and weighs about 75 lbs. He is headstrong (literally) and enjoys a good playful headbutt whenever he sees hubby, the kids, dogs, pretty much anything that moves and he perceives as needing to be dominated. What used to be playful little nudges are now painful stabs with that damn horn that grew back after his late dehorning session. He can be quite the turd, especially since I haven't had roses for over a year due to his trimming sessions, but I love the little guy. He wanders our valley when he's not on his lead, and will follow you around like a loyal dog. He also loves when our realtor visits as the realtor brings Chico's best friend - a shiny black paint job that reflects Chico's handsome face (a.k.a. his best friend). No, I'm not at all saying that Chico is the most intelligent animal, but he is very entertaining and extremely loyal. He's the stinky guardian of our front porch and best friend to the chickens. Hubby still isn't sold on Chico and frankly, can't stand the poor little guy (something about Chico nibbling on the four-wheeler, eating the pull string on the lawnmower, and schatting in the garage on hit tools - I think), but he's at least accepted the fact that he's not going anywhere. Chico will be with us for the rest of his little goaty life and I'm sure that there will be many more adventures and frustrations that can be attributed to this little guy.

Then

Now