Murder & Mayhem

The only thing worse than stumbling to the barn in the morning fog and finding all the goats missing, is stumbling to the barn in the morning fog to find only one goat missing. If they are ALL gone, you can assume that they got out, but if only one goat is gone – He's dead.

I stood in the barn this morning and watched as three goats dutifully filed into the barn (with an extra spring in their step) and went into their stall (prison). Three goats? Counted them again. I hadn't finished my coffee and Math is not my forte before 8 AM. Three goats. Hmmmm…. That can't be good. Listened carefully. No bleating. That was definitely Not Good.So I locked the inmates inside their prison, grabbed up my coffee and headed out to the pasture.

Noted a large pile of feathers behind the barn. Hmmmm…. My mother raises a rare breed of Heritage chickens in my pasture. Apparently Spotted Sussex Chickens are a bit rarer after this m orning. Saw a suspicious lump in back pasture. I'm a crime scene investigator; even before I've finished my coffee, I can spot a goat stomach at 40 yards. (no specialized training is really needed for that)

En route to the stomach I found more feathers. Subtracted another Spotted Sussex. Found what's left of a Boer goat. Not much but a head, a backbone and three feet. Even I was impressed at the way poor Ken looked. The Boogey Beast may not have been too keen on goat entrails, but the rest of the goat was pretty much gone. I had turned that goat out to graze at 12:30 AM last night. By 7:30 AM this morning, Ken looked like a lion kill that had been picked clean by buzzards. Impressive. Very impressive.

Started poking around the pasture and found bits and pieces of Ken all over. It would appear that the Boogey Beast was actually a collection of Boogey Beasts. Canine paw prints marked the area. And more dead chickens. Actually, they were just piles of chicken feathers – no bodies. A trail of chicken feathers led out of the pasture and into the canal. Okay then. I could accept that coyotes had come in and stolen my livestock. I live in the country. If you live in the country, those things happen. I even happen to like coyotes. I could donate a goat from time to time to wildlife. (Ken would vote differently on that issue.)

I decided that I would just have to make sure to keep the goats in their stall at night, and make sure that the chickens were not released until well after the sun was up. I was comfortable, (not happy, but comfortable) with that idea until the rancher next door shot a hole in it when he pointed out that the tracks were not coyotes, but dogs. "WHAT!!! YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT DOMESTIC DOGS JUST KILLED FIVE CHICKENS AND ATE AN ENTIRE GOAT!!"

Rancher informed me that he'd been having a problem with dogs comi ng from the neighborhood across the canal. I looked down at what was left of Ken and started to get mad. Rancher put on rubber boots and followed the trail of feathers through the fence, across the canal, and up to the neighboring street. It appeared that Fluffy and Friends got tired of eating Purina and had decided to cross the canal and hunt in the Serengeti.

Those goats have been a pain in my butt, but come on – Ken was in his own pasture, minding his own little goat business (for once in his life!) and the chickens were simply early risers (undoubtedly they had not finished their coffee either) who had unfortunately been invited to breakfast by Fluffy and his friends who were still picking their teeth. I was ready to follow the feather trail myself to find Fluffy's owner and inform him that he needed to confine Fluffy and Friends. Rancher pointed out that I didn't want to do this since it could cause me to lose my job. I followed his train of thought for a moment and realized that perhaps he was right. There was a strong possibility that Irate Farm Girl With a Badge And a Gun was unlikely to be amused when Bubba informed her that this was a free county and it was his God-Given Right to let his dogs run free. It is also highly unlikely that the Police Dept, my employer, would be amused when we had to extract my gun from Bubba's butt.

Yes, Rancher was probably right about this one – let Animal Control handle it. So now the remaining three goats are locked in their stalled (and are apparently quite happy to be there!) After six hours the Animal Control guy still hasn't showed up. I figure they're busy and Fluffy is not a high priority. But -- since Ken was eaten a mere baseball throw from my barn (and a $7000 horse!), I can assure you that if I catch Fluffy chasing that horse, lead will fly.

And I hate to even think about what my mother will do if she catches Bubba. Exactly how far can a cane go up someone's butt?