The Pony let the goats out for their hour of frolic and grass-mowing this morning. He wanted to be done by 9:00 so he could go to spend the day with his grandma.
At 8:50, the goats started running to the pen. It's not that they are extremely intelligent goats with internal hourglasses. They're just stupid goats. When one goes somewhere, the other chase after it. Goats are herd animals, you know.
I told The Pony that he could go ahead and put them up. Usually, he has to bang the lid on the corn-storing metal garbage can to make them run into the pen. But today, they outsmarted themselves. We went off to town. I dropped off The Pony, gassed up T-Hoe, made a bank deposit, picked up a package of Nike socks at the dead-mouse-smelling post office so the #1 son will not look like a ragamuffin at Nerd Camp next week, purchased my Sonic Route 44, and headed back to the Mansion. It was only 11:30 when I got there.
Around 2:00, as I was sitting with my mouth hanging open after hearing the Casey Anthony trial verdict, #1 came in from his unsupervised dip in Poolio.
"Are the goats supposed to be out?"
"No. The Pony put them up."
"Well, Nellie is out in the field."
"Go check on them. Put them back in."
"I HATE those goats!"
He went after them. Apparently, goats are escape artists. They had battered down the door to their pen. #1 rounded up all but Nellie. She's stubborn as a mule. He wedged the door to keep the rest in. Two hours later, he reported that the triplets had wiggled their way out.
Farmer H will have to remedy the situation tonight. I am not going to sit on the porch all day to protect my roses and lilac bushes.