September brings two things, Broncos season and Breeding season. For either form of entertainment, you can sit on the sidelines and watch. Both are rather action packed.
Around the time Broncos season kicks up, Lucy, Canela, Snowflake and MaryAnn are getting more fidgety, doing more head butting, bleating more often, rubbing up against unsuspecting guests and excessively wagging their tails. Their bodies are telling us, the goatherders, that they are ready to meet their man. They are ready to perpetuate life. They are ready to make babies.
Here’s the problem though. WHO in their right mind would be attracted to a guy whose excess forehead skin dropped in cascading layers to the bridge of his nose, has a protruding ten foot tall frontal bone, and a pheromonic odor reminiscent of ammonia, cat pee, sharp cheddar cheese and skunk spray. Oh, and by the way, this Don Juan attains that repulsive aura by running his nose through their waterfalls of urine when the girls take a whiz. And, even worse, he pees on HIS OWN FACE.
I can right now, hands down, say that I am thankful the males of our species do not employ the same tactics. Our sustainability as a human race would definitely be in question.
The buck which breeds our does was a young stud last year and had not yet acquired his full aroma, and, secretly, I was hopeful he would be an anomaly. The one male goat that outsmarted nature’s calling for homemade perfume and decided to make a go of it odor free. Last year, he had a sweet, cherubic face. He even used to be petable.
Not so much anymore.
I basically don’t want to get anywhere near him for fear he’ll nuzzle me, looking for affection, and I’ll have to burn my clothing on the spot. His forehead has started to lengthen upward and there’s a greasy residue coating the hair on his reverse face lift. He’s demanding and has a sleazy way of sticking out his upper lip then lifting it toward the sky, when he smells a (goat) woman. If he were a human, he’d be wearing a skin tight shirt unbuttoned to lower chest level, exposing overflowing chest hair and multiple fake gold necklaces. He’d be dancing to disco music and pointing his upper lip skyward. He’s not the type of company I prefer to keep.
We’ll invite him to do his job, then it’s off with him. Off to the wild blue yonder on someone else’s farm where he can seduce more does and continue to procreate.
– The Goat Cheese Lady
P.S. This post, in it’s edited version was first published on the IndyBlog here. Would you please read it too and leave me a comment about which version you liked better? Thanks, you’re awesome.