So...why did I have a pet goat, you ask? Why to keep the horse company, of course. Owning a horse proved to be an unrelenting nightmare, however, and the day the shady-looking horse-dealer coaxed her up the ramp into his trailer and drove off was one of the most joyous of my life— a life this beast had done everything in her power to end prematurely.
But the goat stayed. He was a wonderful pet. He eliminated the weed problem in the pasture (the woman who owned the house before us was a spinner and weaver who kept sheep), required little in the way of maintenance, and added a lot of color to the place. He loved to match wits with me and was diabolically clever when it came to finding ways to escape. His tried-and-true method was simply to wait patiently for the electric fence to fail (he could always tell), then bulldoze his way out, head straight for his feed barrel, remove the lid, and gorge himself. He lived for 12 or 13 years and I was really bummed when he died. I buried him in the pasture.