I owe you a funny goat post.
A lot of what I’ve written lately has been heavy.
Life has been heavy.
But even in the middle of all of it, I’m still finding humor. It’s how Marc and I always lived. We found something to laugh about in almost everything — even the darkest things.
Sometimes continuing that feels like betrayal.
Like I’m betraying my grief.
Or betraying him.
But this goat story?
This is exactly the kind of thing we would have laughed about for years.
So here we go.
I had just let all six dogs out. Three from the Dog Mahal. Three from the house. If you don’t know this already, some Frenchies are absolute maniacs. Not cute maniacs. I’m talking tiny, determined, serial-killer-in-a-sweater maniacs.
Sawyer hates goats. Hates them.
Last year I literally installed a sprinkler at the goat gate to spray outward so he would stop stalking them like they were appetizers.
I thought we had turned a corner.
We had not.
All the dogs were outside, frolicking like the sweet angels they pretend to be. I went inside for something — I truly do not remember what — and then it got quiet.
Too quiet.
Then I heard the goats.
Not their normal bleating.
The “this feels unsafe” bleating.
I ran out the door, kicked my feet into a pair of Marc’s Crocs, and sprinted off the deck toward the goat pen.
Sawyer had climbed the gate.
CLIMBED.
And was chasing the goats like it was his full-time occupation.
I got the first gate open. The second wouldn’t budge. Straw had wedged underneath it like it had personally decided to ruin my life.
So naturally, I chose violence.
I attempted to squeeze myself through the top two-thirds of the gate.
This was a catastrophic idea.
I shredded my shirt.
Lost one of the Crocs.
And then remembered I had been barefoot when I shoved my feet into them.
So now I’m in the goat pen with:
One oversized Croc on a bare foot One completely bare foot A shredded shirt And a Frenchie chasing goats like it’s the Kentucky Derby.
There was yelling.
There was crying.
There was falling.
I finally caught Sawyer, dragged him out, and confirmed the goats were fine.
Then I stopped.
To assess.
My shirt was hanging in ribbons. My one remaining Croc was full of straw and goat poop. My bare foot — and honestly most of my lower half — was completely covered in goat poop.
At least I matched.
I always say, “Dress the part.”
I could barely breathe because cardio is not currently my spiritual gift.
I made my way back to the stuck gate and realized something important:
Getting in had been questionable.
Getting out was going to be… ambitious.
I sat down in the mud. In the goat poop. In my shredded dignity (and shirt)
And I cried.
And I laughed.
Jack tried to eat my ponytail.
Ginny tried to eat my shirt.
It was epic.
Completely hysterical.
And for a moment — sitting there in the mess — I could almost hear Marc laughing.
This is what we did.
We found the funny.
Even in the mud.
Even in the chaos.
Even in the after.
Still failing.
Epically.
And beautifully.
