Walking the Goats

By Julia
Wanaka, New Zealand

  Tom and I have settled into our second WWOOFing farmstay of the New Zealand leg.  Our hosts, Bernie and Anne, have welcomed us with open arms into their beautiful home.  Their property overlooks the entire mountain range surrounding Wanaka, including Mount Aspiring, the second tallest peak in NZ.   They have a massive flower garden in addition to raised vegetable beds, a greenhouse, 2 Schnauzers, 1 cat, 6 chickens and 4 goats.

  Bernie, a Hawaiian-transplant-cum-Kiwi, gets a huge laugh (as he does over just about anything) over me walking his four goats.  Of his goats, two are a lanky, distinctly goat-like African breed.  The other two are short and stubby, and so fat their midsections may actually be wider than their height.  I try to avoid calling these goats fat in front of Bernie since his response is invariably, "Have you looked in the mirror lately?"

Bernie declared walking the goats to be my daily chore, and it has become my burden to bear.  Unlike cow-milking, it was never a childhood dream of mine to walk goats.  I was unaware goats even needed walking until this week.  The first day on the farm, Bernie showed us proper goat-walking technique as we took Whip, Snip, Lawn and Mower around his property.

  The next day, as part of my "women's work", I was allowed to walk the goats on my own.  It did not go well.  Whip kept butting me for more feed out of my satchel, while Snip didn't budge out of the gate.  Lawn was following dutifully behind me, while Mower was jumping fences and galloping around me in circles.  How anyone herds these animals I have no idea.

Tom, with oats, fending off a strategic goat attack

  Despite their blatant disregard for my authority and creepy rectangular pupils, the goats are growing on me.  They all have unique personalities that are surprisingly lovable.  I have two weeks to make them love me.  The clock is ticking.