Spike was taken from her mom too early and we raised her from a tiny little baby.
[the Mennonites breed their dairy goats to pygmies to get the milk and then quickly sell the kids as ‘pets’]
We got her in March when it was bitterly cold outside.
Thanks to “global warming” it was still too cold in late June to let her out of our house.
She grew up in our bedroom and slept on the bed or the dog crate I put in there for her.
She potty-trained herself and *never* made a mess in the house.
Early every morning my dad would drive up our lane on the way to his cabin on the mountain behind us and see me, leaning against the house, half asleep in my jammies and a coat with Spike on a long leash, waiting for her to go potty in the front yard.
One morning, Mr Funny Guy rolled down his window and yelled “Granny does your dog bite?”.
Har dee har har.
To this day, if she’s in the yard, I have to RUN through the back door and shut it really fast because she still thinks there’s been a horrible mistake made and she should be inside again.
[ and I really would, if I could...she has better house manners than my dogs]...;D
I have a back yard full of weeping willows and when they start dragging the ground, I turn the goats loose.
They LOVE that stuff.
[I just wish they wouldn’t eat my honeysuckle]....:)
Everybody loves them.
Even Dad’s macho “huntin’ buddies” always stop with treats for them and the goats run to the fence every time somebody goes by, expecting handouts.