We seem to have gone completely mad, and I’m pretty sure it’s my fault. 

I think Rich thinks it’s my fault, too, but he’s far too gallant to admit it. 

It all started with the goats…

Joli, Benji (humans) Mansel, Pickles (sheep) Buddug, Nessa (goats)

First we got gentle, elderly Buddug, to provide milk for Benji, who has asthma and eczema. We got jet-black, silky little Lola because I fell in love with her and simply had to have her. We got stroppy, horned Nessa, Lola’s mum, because we weren’t sure that Lola, at one month old, would adapt to a bottle. Dexter, Lola’s handsome little castrated billy twin, came with Nessa because he was too young to be left on his own. 

Fair enough. Four goats. 

But then, we decided that with the amount of effort and feed we were putting in, a measly two pints out of Buddug per day really wasn’t worth it. There was only enough goat’s milk for Benji, and we were still buying cow’s milk for everyone else. (Though Rich and I would prefer goat’s milk, the teenagers protested vigorously and swore they would buy cow’s milk out of their pocket money if we switched to goat’s milk entirely! We shall see…)

So, we needed a proper goat. One that could provide the milk for the whole family each day. 

Trouble is, goats aren’t easy to come by these days. It seems that in the early ’80s, everyone and his brother had a goat. Now, to find a good goat who is actually in milk, you have to be lucky as well as smart. There are far fewer people actually keeping goats, and they are notoriously reuctant to part with good milkers… 

Luckily for us, George’s mother, Lynn, came to our aid. We ran into George’s mum and dad at the local boot sale, where they were manning a stall. We snapped up a few of their marvelous books about small-holding, goats and poultry, and discovered while chatting that Lynn had kept a Golden Guernsey and a S’aanen at one time.

Well!

A Golden Guernsey was what I had yearned after - their delicate, deer-like faces and gorgeous caramel-colored coats had enchanted me since I first saw them. Lynn said that she might know of one for sale, and I begged her to find out for me. Rich rolled his eyes and sighed, but indulged me, as he always does, bless him…

Lynn called me back the very next day, saying that the Golden Guernsey had gone, but that she had found two other goats for us. One, a British Toggenberg kept for showing, and the other a S’aanen from a prize-winning milk herd.

Now understand, these were proper goats. Expensive, pampered princesses with pedigrees and better breeding anyone in our family!  

But, we told ourselves, surely there wasn’t any harm in just going to take a look?

We piled into the Honda, newly fitted out with it’s own tow-hitch, (shiny tow-hitch, mum! Benji crowed when he saw it ) and pulling our brand-new-to-us trailer. We drove to the home of the British Toggenburgs, or BTs, as they are known to aficionados. 

The farm was lovely and pristine, with gorgeous animals all kept in picture-book conditions. They kept bees, goats and Buff Orpington chickens (my own favorite!) and we drank cups of tea and admired their garden. They promised us some of their white doves to take home…

And of couse we fell in love with the little princess we saw there, a fragile silvery Toggenberg with lovely eyes and the smallest teats we had ever seen. (More on this later…) But she was a good milker, young, from a good line.

So, we bought her.

She came with her own jacket, jar of molasses and oats to put on her food, insistences that she would only drink warm water, and suggestions that we give her a Marmite sandwich every night. 

!

We brought her home with much excitement, and turned her out with the others. Almost immediately, things started to go wrong. 

Stroppy Nessa head-butted the newcomer right away, and since she has horns, this is no joke. Nessa encouraged the twins to be horrible, and even gentle Buddug joined in, raising her hackles (I didn’t even know that goats had hackles!) and bullying the timid outsider. 

We hustled Nessa back into her own stall, and put the newcomer - we’ll call her Marmite - into her own pen. Then we tried to milk her, and the trouble started. 

Rich, who is an expert milker, couldn’t get hold of her teats properly because they were so tiny. Marmite was stressed, and stopped letting the milk down. I tried - less expert, but smaller hands - and could only get out a tiny bit. 

After about forty-five minutes, we gave up and Rich put Buddug onto the milking stand. He milked her a bit, and she promptly kicked over the bucket, with all of our hard-won milk in it. 

At which point Rich shied the pail across the barn.

And really, you couldn’t blame him. 

We retired into the house, much discouraged. 

We had an appointment the next day to see the S’aanen, and couldn’t work out what to do. I had the feeling of things rapidly spinning out of control…