It all started so innocently.

Just one goat, I said. A modest beginning. A peaceful, pastoral moment. I had it all planned: one sweet 9-month-old mama goat and her tiny, squishy 16-day-old buckling. That’s it. Simple. Reasonable. Responsible.

HAHAHAHA.

That was Day One.

By Day Two, I was waking my poor, unsuspecting mother up before the sun had even finished brushing her teeth. I bribed her with coffee and a vague promise of “just a quick trip” (spoiler alert: lies) to go pick up a 7-month-old doeling I found online at 11:47 p.m. the night before. Because nothing good starts with, “So I was scrolling the livestock classifieds…”

I rode in the backseat the whole way home with this goat like she was a bomb that might detonate if she sneezed. I spent 60 full minutes panicking that I was about to be pooped on. I’ve never clenched so hard in my life. It was a spiritual experience.

We got her home, and I introduced her to the original two. Mama goat is now Gina, because she’s loud, dramatic, and definitely thinks she’s the main character. Baby boy? Peralta, obviously. He’s all legs, chaos, and poor decision-making skills. The new girl? Amy. Sweet. Gentle. Probably writes in a gratitude journal.

Three goats. Surely enough.

Enter: Facebook Messenger, aka the gatekeeper of all my bad ideas.

This lovely lady messages me out of nowhere. “Hey, I have a 3-month-old buckling looking for a buddy.” Now, any normal person would say, “Thanks but I’m good!” But I am not normal. I am a goat collector with no impulse control and an enabling mother.

So off we go, again. My mom cradles this baby goat like he’s the goat Jesus and even puts tiny sunglasses on him in the car. We name him Terry because he’s soft, sensitive, and totally built like a linebacker.

But when we got home… the bullying began.

But when we got home…. The bullying began!

Y’all. The Mean Girls energy was palpable. Gina and Amy were out here quoting Regina George and absolutely terrorizing poor little Terry. He just wanted to eat hay in peace, but NO. It was like middle school gym class all over again.

So naturally… I get another goat.

Enter Rosa. A 2-month-old firecracker who is sweet as pie but also not here for your nonsense. She immediately took Terry under her tiny hooves and became his ride-or-die. Honestly, their friendship could be a Netflix series.

So now we’re at five goats. FIVE. In under a week.

My husband stopped blinking and immediately called our friend Rob. Next thing I know, they’re out in the back 40 building Michelle’s Goat Fortress of Solitude. It has fencing, a shelter, and enough room for everyone to scream and leap like tiny unhinged antelope.

And y’all, these goats? They are LIVING.

They scream when we leave. They scream when we arrive. They scream just to hear themselves scream. They nibble on my apron strings like they’re spaghetti. My phone? A snack. My shoelaces? Delicacy. They stick their noses and horns in places that are legally questionable. And they follow me around like I’m their slightly unhinged goat queen.

Also: have you ever heard five goats scream at once? It sounds like a toddler riot. There’s at least one moment every day where I think, “Oh no, a child is being mauled in the woods.” But no. That’s just Gina having a lot of feelings.

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So yeah, I accidentally started a goat gang.
We’ve got:

• Gina – Head mean girl. Chaos commander. Milk machine.
• Peralta – Baby parkour king. Not a single thought in that fuzzy head.
• Amy – Sweet, innocent, probably trying to read a book somewhere.
• Terry – Gentle giant with a heart of gold and nerves of glass.
• Rosa – 10 pounds of attitude in a 5-pound frame. Will fight you.

And me? I’m just out here living my best Goat Mama Fever Dream, smelling like hay and bad decisions, trying to pretend this was all part of the plan.

Spoiler: It never was.

But would I do it all again?

Absolutely.