‘Tis the season.

I swear I’m going to kill my goats.

They caught a whiff of buck a couple of days ago, and all hell has broken loose in the paddock.

Last night, I barely even heard the d*#&$ cat howling at the window over the F@#$^&*ng goats in the paddock. I finally gave up trying to sleep at four this morning and got up and fed them. I figured if they were eating, they’d have to be quiet, right?

Unfortunately, love-sick goats aren’t interested in food. The novelty of it kept them quiet for a few minutes, at least. Around five, I went out and hung out with them for a while—again, it was good for a few minutes, until they decided I wasn’t nearly as interesting as the prospect of a buck. Somewhere. If only they could call loud enough for him to hear.

They’ve worn a path around the perimeter of the paddock—pacing and calling all night.

And they’ve worn a path in my nerves. I’ve warned them. Another peep out of them, and we’re having goat for dinner.