I love goats.

No, really, I do. They’re affectionate, intelligent, they eat weeds like nettles and thistles and brambles, and in return they produce delicious milk that is non-allergenic and curative for eczema, asthma and acne. They’re small, athletic and graceful and they adore being around human beings. One goat can produce enough milk to keep a family in healthy milk, cheese and yogurt. What’s not to like?

Whereas cows…well. They’re big, dumb, slow, heavy, expensive to feed, produce liquid poo that makes a horrible mess and milk that most humans can’t digest properly. There’s just no contest. How did people ever give up goats and settle on cows anyway?

So, we’ve been acquiring goats. When I first came to the farm, the barn was empty. Now we have eleven - count them, eleven! goats. Every stall in full. When we go in to milk in the morning, there are heads and lovely liquid eyes peering over every door, and the air is filled with reproachful bleating.

One of our recent additions is Smoky, the pygmy goat. Smoky is young, only about three months old, but she’s so naughty that for some reason she seems older. She simply can’t be contained, and despite having an enormous pot belly, she can squeeze herself through a hole in any fence and go where she chooses. The other day it was raining, and she was missing from the field. (Goats hate rain, on account of not having any water-proofing in their coats…) When I got anxious and went looking for her, I found her in the barn - she had let herself in, to get out of the wet!

Smoky’s roommate is Eira, the two month old kid who was our first home-born prodigy, produced by our star milker Glenda. Eira is delicate and elegant and white, and if she had a horn she would look exactly like a unicorn.