I'll start with Emma, our dog- she loves to "encourage" me. When it's time to milk, she'll stand in front of me and stare. If I don't respond immediately, she'll start to whine and lunge at me as though she is about to attack. Finally, I'll get exasperated enough with her to just go out and do what I need to do. I cannot get dressed quickly enough for her. She will consistently press her cold, wet, nose into my bare skin as I try to put on my clothes. I can't stand it. As obedient as Emma is, she will not stop doing this no matter how many times I scold her for it. When I'm dressed and ready, Emma also feels that I need to be told in what direction I need to be going. She will herd me out the door, down the steps, and all the way to the barn. It drives me bonkers to have her constantly nudging me. She doesn't do this in the summer, so I think that all the extra layers make her think that I am too fat to walk on my own, and a little bit of nose up my rear is necessary.
When I entered the barn in the warmer months, the goats would bleat and yell like the place was on fire. They knew that milking time meant grain. Now when I walk in, they stare at me. They remain huddled together on the ground, chewing their cud. I call to them, and they continue to stare. I enter their pen and wave my arms a few times, and they look at me like I'm stupid. Then they pretend as though I'm not there, and start finding things to look at on the ceiling. Right now, only Maple is giving milk, so I'll go wrestle her to her feet and hook her up to a lead rope. Socks follows us for the sole purpose of harassing me. As I begin to milk Maple, Maple will slowly start to lean into me until she is literally laying in my lap. She doesn't do this to Shawn or Olivia. It's quite frustrating. She and I have both learned that if I try to push her off of me, I end up flat on my back in manure. I find it much less humorous than the goats do. So, as I precariously balance myself and 75 lb. Maple while I maintain a squat position, I milk as quickly as I can. Socks sneaks up and pulls my hat over my eyes, or gets a grip on my pants and yanks me over; sometimes she practices doing both in quick succession. I'm so glad that goats can't laugh, or I would probably lose it.
Goats are not very sanitary creatures. Every day there are several helpings of turds in their water bowl. In my bowl cleaning experience, I have come to understand that scarves- while necessary to keep me warm- can be used against me. One day (as I was still recovering from an assault from the goats which landed me on my back), as I bent over to clean the poopy dish, my scarf fell straight into the murky contents. My first instinct was to jerk it out, which resulted in frigid brown water spraying all over my face. As I spit and sputtered with my eyes closed, Socks grabbed my soiled scarf and gave it a good pull. I spilled the milk all over myself, which quickly froze to my jacket. After I gained my composure, I brought the offensive water bowl outside to scrub it out. I grumbled and cursed the whole time, and once I finished, I found that since the bottom of the bowl holds the heated coils, there was gooey dung all over the arm of my coat. I now had poop covering every square inch of my winter attire. When I finally got inside the house, I was greeted with, "Mommy, you smell!"
I have been doing everything I can to bribe Shawn and Olivia to do the chores, and luckily, I seldom have to milk anymore. They know that I'm not just paranoid- the goats really do have it out for me. If they had opposable thumbs, I doubt I would ever sleep again.
