Last night, at midnight, FarmHusband heard plaintive bleating. I heard it too, and the both of us thought FarmWife had better have a look at Missy. "Maaaaaaaaaaaah!," she screamed into the night. "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
FarmWife, having heard from the neighbor that we'd had nine coyotes within twenty feet of the house not two nights earlier, was worried. Could Missy be trapped? Wounded? Turning, in her illness, for the worse? Could she be surrounded by predators? Broken? Bleeding?
FarmWife rushed to Missy's side, and found my goat standing at the gate. You may recall that Missy has been sick these three weeks, and that standing alone is a new and miraculous accomplishment for her. FarmWife went to open the gate, fearing that some terrible fright had compelled the goat to her feet. Missy barged through, wobbling and listing sideways, and ran, bleating, for the driveway. "I'd like," she said, "to get in the car." It was then that FarmWife realized: Missy had come into season, and was compelled by the pangs of lust to rise from her sickbed. Missy is a little tramp, and spent the rest of the night crying her lusty complaints into the darkness. "Take me," she called, "to a buck!"
We shan't, it turns out. FarmWife and FarmHusband have agreed that Missy deserves an early retirement as a milker, and shall stay on as a pet and a pet alone. They are in the market for a new milking doe, and so we shall have four hoofbeasts in the paddock at Bent Barrow Farm before too long. As far as romance goes, Missy is, and shall forever remain, unsatisfied.