If you’ve come along on some of my blog adventures, you know I live on a hobby farm with goats. Well, other living beings, too, but this story is about goats.
Remember Rocket, the confused male goat? If not, go check out his story. Rocket has fantastic (code for odd) stories, and I have another of his adventures to share.
Goat romance is a precious thing. Rocket was a classic romantic who spent a lot of time alone, pining for his girlfriend. Now the girlfriend varied from week to week, but Rocket was always ready.
Rocket’s place ran parallel to a small pasture where two does – goat ladies – lived. One day I noticed that one of the does, Lulu, tiptoed along the fence line in shy come-hither steps like a young girl hoping the star athlete would see her. She was ready to meet Rocket.
The other doe, Maybelle, was oblivious. Her afternoon snack held more interest than did a male caller. She ignored Rocket.
I did mention that Rocket was always ready for romance, right?
I opened the gate and Rocket roared into the pasture, legs churning in a blur like Roadrunner cruising the desert where Wile E. Coyote schemed.
Rocket had more hormones than brains. And his pick up line was about as sophisticated as Blinkie the Clown.
Chanting “Hey, good lookin'” as he flew into the pasture, he focused his loving gaze on Maybelle. Not Lulu. Wrong girl.
When a female goat is not in the mood, a hormone-fueled buck is as attractive as roadkill. Dead gym socks smelled better.
Maybelle saw Rocket hurtling toward her and took off like a jet. Her legs were whirling faster than the back tires of a quarter-mile drag racer. I wondered if she’d need a parachute to get stopped. If she ever stopped.
I watched the pair bolt around the perimeter of the pasture, legs spinning. Rocket’s head was up as he sang melodies to the beauty of his new girlfriend.
Maybelle’s head was down; she had no time for nonsense. Kentucky Derby winners might not have been able to catch Maybelle as she circled the pasture.
Meanwhile, Miss Lulu waited by the pasture gate for her handsome hero. She sent little air kisses to Rocket and twirled her tail like a string of pearls. Cute red hearts floated above her head like balloons at a Valentine’s day party. Red confetti filled the air.
As the racing pair headed down the backstretch, their path took them past Miss Lulu who by now was flashing her lashes and tossing her hair like Marilyn Monroe.
I did not know a thundering buck could make a 180-degree correction without turning inside out, but Rocket did it.
Suddenly, he was bringing roses and chocolate to Miss Lulu. Their foreheads touched like sweet kisses. Violin music began to play.
Meanwhile, Maybelle’s parachute must have worked. She leaned against a fence post, heaving for air while her life passed before her eyes.
If I ever get a racehorse, I might consider calling it Rocket. But I actually think Maybelle might be a better choice.
