All the girls are in season. This means they are wanting to get married. Just as human females, so it seems to go in the goat world. Every single one, except the two little hussies who managed to get out with their boyfriend in August, are in heat. They are worse than a bunch of 16-year-old girls looking for a prom date.
Tonight was the night of all nights. I went to feed, only to find Lucy, yes, dear understated Lucy, pressed, no, actually, lunging through the fence talking to the boys. And the boys? They were all lined up, talking back. The ducks, in utter shock, were lined up behind Lucy, watching. It was an unbelievable sight. Her tail twitched erratically back and forth. She looed. She cooed. She swung her hips in a most suggestive manner. The boys responded just as any teenaged boys would. They looed, cooed, and swung their hindquarters; then, they peed on their faces.
I was shocked. Dismayed. Aghast. Amused.
Then the fight broke out. Clara slammed Lucy. Lucy shoved Clarice. Clarice head butted Mia. Mia scrambled, but Mary plunged into her from the right side. Anabell slung her horns into anyone or anything close by. The boys continued to pee on their faces.
Surely, I thought, getting them one-by-one into the milking parlor would stop the fight. Surely the sight of sweet feed would stop the silliness. Nopers. Only the boys were interested in hay or food. As Don observed, even in goats food trumps girls nearly every time. By the time the milking was done, I was worn out.
And the girls?
At last check they were still rumbling in the loafing yard. Boy, I wish I had teenagers again.