We had a goat for awhile. Our next door neighbor where we used to live when we were first married was a WWI vet who was gassed in the Argonne. Every so often his lungs would act up and he would have to go into the VA for awhile. He had a goat who lived in his back yard to eat the weeds, and when he went into hospital we always looked after the goat.
We named her Leona (after a dart player named Leon that my husband disliked) and treated her like a queen. First cut alfalfa hay and liberal amounts of Purina Goat Chow. She was desperately thin because he expected her to live on weeds, so she really enjoyed staying with us. The local feed store (there was still one in DOWNTOWN Atlanta at that time) used to laugh at me when I showed up in my old BMW sedan in my dress-for-success pinstriped wool suit, silk blouse, pearls, and high heels to buy hay and feed on my way home from work.
But we loved Leona, and she loved us. She learned the sound of my car engine and would be standing on her goat shelter watching for me as I pulled in with her dinner. Only problem was my cats were afraid of her (she used to chase them).
Our neighbor eventually paid his debt to Nature, and his family came up from south Georgia and took Leona (even though he gave us Leona when he left for the VA the last time, we didn't want to fight with family.) I hope they didn't take advantage of her beautifully plump and glossy state to hold a barbeque . . . I really think she was too old to eat though.
They are smart and when they love you they really love you. I had a Nubian, Beulah, whom I loved as much as any dog. When she died -- well I will grieve for her until I die. She was a fine goat and a fine person and yielded prodigiously (for a Nubian) and about 4% butterfat, and she loved me and spoke to me as a mother goat speaks to her kids. And she was beautiful - a steely grey. When I have forgotten her, you will know I am losing my mind.