“I didn’t choose the farm life. The farm life chose me.”
Tupac was talking about something completely different… but somehow it still feels accurate.
Last night at exactly 11:00 p.m., right when I was fast asleep. And let’s be honest, once you cross 40, staying awake past 10:00 p.m. isn’t “living a little.” It’s self-sabotage. I’m protecting my eight hours like it’s a retirement account.
Then my fiancée shakes me awake.
“Michael… we have four kids in the goat pen.”
Now when someone says there are kids in your goat pen at 11:00 at night, your brain doesn’t immediately think, “Ah yes, miraculous livestock reproduction.”
No.
I thought neighborhood kids had broken into the pasture to harass my sweet Ivy and her roommate.
Which is especially impressive considering… there are no neighborhood kids.
My brain invented an entire gang of imaginary juvenile delinquents before it accepted that goats had simply… made more goats.
So I stumble outside looking like a confused sleepwalker that’s about to yell at fictional children.
Instead…
Four tiny baby goats.
Apparently while I was dreaming about absolutely nothing, Ivy was over there building an entire kindergarten.
The little things were making every sound imaginable. Were they crying? Yelling? Laughing? Plotting? Honestly, it sounded like they were roasting me.
“Look at this guy. He thought he bought two goats.”
Meanwhile my fiancée instantly turns into the world’s greatest goat midwife. Calm. Collected. She knew exactly what to do. I contributed what every man contributes during a crisis.
Standing there.
Occasionally saying, “Huh…”
Thankfully everyone is healthy, the babies are doing great, and Ivy handled it like a pro.
So there goes my peaceful Sunday morning.
Life looked at my calendar, saw the one day I planned to sleep in, and said, “Cute idea… here’s four more mouths to feed.”
At this rate, give it a few weeks and I’ll just open a combination bar and petting zoo here in Bloomingdale. We’ll drink a few beers, pet baby goats, and I’ll tell everyone the story of how this all spiraled out of control.
Because apparently Tupac was right.
I didn’t choose the farm life. The farm life chose me.
Happy Sunday, y’all. 🐐🍻
That was the free stuff. The premium nonsense comes as a signed book — $40 paperback, $75 hardcover, or $100 for a three-pack to split with your group chat. Half of every copy turns into hay. Feed a goat, get a book.
