What can I say? I have bad luck with goats #escapegoats

All I wanted to do was shoot some goats.

Callie and Munch had other plans. I mean, I still shot them. They were just a little more of a moving target than planned.

Let’s back up. Lydia Bogar invited me over to her house to meet the goats who were spending the weekend munching on the poison ivy and other greenery on the steep hill of her backyard, which slopes down to the Quinsigamond River. Rented from Upton’s Stone Arbor Farm, these “Go Go Goat Mowers” are penned in by a moveable electric fence, which ideally is shifted multiple times to allow the, to chow down all unwanted invasives.

There was Callie, pregnant and eating for two, and Munch who… well, her name suits her. The pair had just about devoured most of the weeds when I came down the hill to photograph them — oh let’s be honest. I took several quick steps down the hill before losing my balance in the mud before sliding the rest of the way down on my ass as Lydia laughed from her deck.

The goats, intrigued by my famed grace and poise, came down to the river’s edge to mock me. I noticed one tentatively nipping at a leaf on an overhanging branch, jumping back as its chin grazed the top of the fence. I flashed briefly to that scene in “Jurassic Park” where the T-Rex first notices the park has lost power and decides to have friends for dinner as Lydia threw me a walking stick to ascend back to her yard.

We were relaxing on the deck and gossiping about Grafton when Lydia gasped “Oh my God.”

The goats were loose. And they didn’t need the help of a walking stick to get back up the hill and into the yard, where they started snacking on Lydia’s garden.

“Not the apple tree!” she cried out and raced down the stairs.

This is the part where I regret to say that, despite having two cameras, I do not have video of the chase, nor do I have action shots. I was not about to let a senior citizen, no matter how spry and competent, chase two goats. We attempted to herd them back down the hill but they were encouraged not only by the taste of freedom, but also the temptation of the plantings in the front yard.

I have a history with goats. The infamous “Lowell Goat,” which escaped from a slaughterhouse in December 2014 and stayed on the lam for weeks as it roamed Lowell, Chelmsford, and Westford, gave me 15 minutes of fame when I created a map tracing its progress for the Lowell Sun. People still tweet me links to goat stories. I also have experience in herding livestock, since I grew up near a farm with wandering cows. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen the neighborhood dads, still in pajamas, running with the bulls at sunrise on a summer day.

Back to Lydia and her goats. She tried coaxing them with hunks of bread and leafs of romaine. Her neighbors stopped to join the chase. I created a crude leash with the fabric shopping bag stowed in my back pocket and captured one, while the neighbor clipped a dog leash to the second.

By the time we got the goats back in the fence, they had lost all fear of electricity — the fence had never been hooked up to the generator and they just plowed on through. We finally managed to tie them to the bottom of the deck with the assist of the green beans I had just bought at Stop & Shop.

“Hey stupid! This way!” I called off, bouncing a bean off a goat’s head.

When I left, Lydia was still arguing with the farmers who were picking up the goats over the still-uneaten section of poison ivy and the problematic non-electric fence. Callie and Munch were mowing down her daylilies.

My only plan was to shoot some goats. But hey, I also managed to get my steps in.

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