A couple months back, I blogged about the joys of our little goat, Chico. Chico recently celebrated his one year birthday and along with the age came a major bout of attitude and about 50 extra pounds. No longer was he my sweet little kid looking for ear scratches or wanting to visit with his favorite Schwan's guy; he was now a turd. A big white blob of Hell placed on this Earth to make our family miserable.

Each day I'd let him off his lead to take a break and wander the yard. However, he soon learned that he could hold our front porch hostage; pooping and peeing wherever he pleased. One wrong move and he'd contort his little body into a battering ram that was sure to knock anyone on their butt. When he was tied out, he'd holler his protests, and do his best to get off of the lead he was affixed to. It was just a no win situation for all parties.

We thought we'd remedy the problem by giving him to our neighbors who also had a goat and a huge piece of ground. Chico seemed to like it for awhile but about a week later, I heard the familiar rumblings of garbage cans being knocked over; Chico had escaped and returned home. Evidently he felt that our Redneck Ranch was better than their house; plus, he hadn’t gotten a chance to eat all the new succulent shoots on my roses. He still had work to do.

He seemed to do well for awhile, appreciative that his momma and siblings would accept him back into the brood. But this love quickly turned to a huge case of spring fever mixed with bad attitude. Once again, Chico had kidnapped the front porch and proceeded to eat all of my roses, the daffodil sprouting in my yard, and the electric starter on our BBQer. He also successfully opened every package that the UPS man delivered and would knock over our trashcans daily, in an attempt to find out if we were eating healthier than he.

Knowing our difficulties with Chico, our good friend Serge, offered to take him off of our hands, assuring us that he’d put him to good use. While this initially perked my interest, I began questioning him as to Chico’s future living quarters and what sort of yard he had for him. Serge just looked at me as if I didn’t understand his proposition.

“Uh, we’re gonna eat him." he told me, smiling at the prospect of a deep pit BBQ starring Chico the tender smoked goat.

Nope. Not happening. Although Chico was driving my family nuts, he was my fourth kid and I just couldn’t face the prospect of someone eating him. The hungry look on Serge’s face made me want to place poor Chico in the Goat Witness Protection Program. He’d have to leave in obscurity somewhere in Wisconsin, under an assumed name with some other random family or perhaps even a trashy Nanny goat named Big Bertha. He’d live his 12 or so years completely anonymous, never to contact our family again. Where's that number to the FBI, I guess I dont' have it on speed dial...

Needless to say, he stayed with us for another week and chalked up four more garbage can turnovers, ate the rest of my bulb sprouts, schatted all over my driveway and front porch, ate the Payless Shoes Source box and distributed the new shoes in said box all over my yard, and discovered his beautiful reflection in my brand, new car. This discovery also led to him attempting to “rub out” his completion with his one horn, on my BRAND NEW CAR! I grabbed the phone and dialed Serge’s number; at this point, anger and desperation took in and I saw only red…

Then my wonderful neighbor stepped in. Mr. A informed us that during a trip to his Rodeo BBQ, Chico had made great friends with one of his buddies. Evidently, Chico was the life of this outside party and was quickly inducted in as a four-legged party go’er. Mr. A told me that he’d let his buddy know that Chico was once again available.

The following Sunday morning, Mr. A and his buddy arrived and transported Chico to his new home of endless blackberry bushes, brush, and someone else’s rose bushes. Hubby and I waved goodbye to Chico, using only one finger a piece - you can decide which one. Chico is now much happier and so are we. Yes, I admit that I do miss the occasional moment when he’d place his soft little nose into the crook of my arm, begging for an ear scratch or two. I’d happily oblige him and in the next moment, he’d take it as a challenge and would proceed to chase me down the driveway and once again take command of my front porch. I think we’ll stick to chickens from now on. At least they give us eggs and eat the endless amounts of bugs our Redwood forest provide. And they’re much easier to give away if they piss you off.