Clear back in 2011, I was driving home from somewhere at night. It was dark, and I saw something up ahead running down the middle of the street. I thought it was a dog, but soon realized it didn't run like a dog. I got closer and saw it was a goat. In the middle of suburbia.
I grew up on a farm with cows, horses, chickens, turkeys, pigs, and even llamas. But we'd never had goats. My farmer's genes are strong; however, so I had to try and help it. I hurried home to grab the dog's leash, then back to the street to rescue him.
The poor thing was still in the middle of the road, but had stopped running. When I got out of the car, he came right up to me. There was a collar around his neck with a piece of chewed up rope attached, so he was clearly an escapee. I clipped the dog leash to the collar and the goat happily climbed in the backseat of my car.
Poor Dan. He knew he'd signed up for a certain amount of weirdness from me, but he never expected a goat. The kids were ecstatic. That little boy is Evan at two years old, absolutely beside himself with joy.
We put the goat in the garage for the night. He refused the lettuce, the dog food, and the apples we offered, but he chowed down on the dried maple leaves that had blown in. Our garage was added to the house later, so we have a storm door between the garage and the house in addition to the regular door. The goat sat all night by the glass door, watching us in the house.
At the time, our dog was a beagle named Lola and she had an absolute FIT! She'd stare for a while, then start howling and eventually, the goat would get up and headbutt the door. That would shut Lola up for a while, but then they'd start all over. We finally had to close the door so everyone could get some sleep ... and so the goat didn't eventually break the glass.
I called animal control the next morning. They have a farm animal division and it took a while, but eventually, they sent someone over to collect him. They told me they'd keep him for two weeks and, if no one called to claim him, we could adopt him.
So naturally, we did.
A few weeks ago, I was talking with my dad and he said, "There's always a certain branch of the Lewis family that has to have critters around." That's totally him, and totally me and of me and my five siblings, I am definitely the most animal loving. This is me with my dad, the handsome cowboy, at my nephew's wedding this year.
When we found out we could adopt the goat, Dad agreed to take him to the farm. The animal control agent told me they'd had no one try to claim him, but did get several calls of interested adopters. A disturbing number wanted to know if they could eat him. I mean, technically yes, but c'mon, how could you after you've seen that face? My brother met us at the yard and drove the goat to the farm, where my mom, dad, and other brother were waiting.
I wasn't there for that first night, but the story goes that my brothers put the goat in the hay barn, then decided to box him in with hay bales to keep him from escaping. They built a corral three bales high and the goat jumped right up and walked along the top of the highest bales. So they added a fourth layer and, nope. The goat got up there as easily as if he'd had a ramp.
This went on until they were seven or eight bales high and the goat just laughed down at them as he pranced along the very top bales. Finally, they ended up tying him to a post in the barn and hoping he stayed put.
He did. We held a family naming contest and my dad's submission won, which was only fair since he would be taking care of the thing. And now we had Buster.
He lived with the cows, and it didn't take him long to assert dominance. At feeding time, Buster would wait until all the cows had their heads down, peacefully munching, then he'd run down the line and headbutt every one of them out of the way so he could take his pick of the best hay.
For the next ten years, Buster was the boss of every animal on the farm. Dad only saw him get rolled twice--once by a new mama cow and once by a bull. He slowed down as he aged and quit being such a menace, and eventually, he was just one of the herd. When we'd go visit, we'd take him almonds and he'd let us pet him, but his favorite person by far was my dad. Buster would follow him around the entire property and they played together in the barn.
Buster made it to a very old age and lived a long, happy life. He died earlier this year and we buried him on a cold March day in the fields he loved.
I recently went with Dad to an auction and they had plenty of goats for sale. Despite my best effort to persuade him, he is out of the goat business. Buster has his very own legacy as the only goat to ever live at Diamond D.
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