Did you know goats bite?

They don't, actually, but they do sream like hell.

For over two hours yesterday Jessica and I endured a relentless cacophony of demonic bleats and spasmodic flurries of tiny-hoofed fury, as we made our first attempt at goat shearing. To the objective observer it must have looked like a grizzly combination of mixed martial arts and satanic ritual. We stepped-on, tied-up, head-locked and body-slammed anything with hooves.

In the end we snatched victory from the shears of defeat, and we smote goat ruin on the pasture-side. After the carnage we stole from the battlefield with the spoils from our conquest: one burlap sack filled with roughly two pounds of dirty goat hair; as well as every shred of goat dignity poor Lilly and Lotus had managed to accumulate thus far in their heretofore peaceful lives. If barnyard animals are coif conscious, then our poor goats' immediate futures will surely hold humiliation of untold measure.

This is how we hoped it would go. This is how it went. To be fair to us, it was our first time. I'm sure the goats pray it was our last. Sadly, for them, Jessica has already commissioned the building of a goat alter shearing table for next year.