The Sweet Song of the Herd
Caroline is named after the Neil Diamond classic Sweet Caroline — and honestly, she lives up to it in every way. She has the sweetest face, the softest eyes, and a heart so big it feels like she was made out of gentleness itself.
She came to us as a bottle baby, and from the very first feeding, something settled between us — a bond that grew one warm bottle at a time. There’s a tenderness in her that feels almost sacred, like she understands the quiet exchange of trust that happens when you care for something so small.
But don’t let that sweetness fool you entirely.
Caroline is also sneaky.
Delightfully, mischievously sneaky.
She has perfected the art of diving headfirst into the feed bin, her little butt sticking straight up as she wiggles deeper in search of just one more bite. It’s impossible not to laugh — and impossible to catch her before she’s already halfway in.
Still, for all her antics, Caroline is the gentlest soul in the herd.
She never fights the others for food or hay.
If another goat challenges her, she simply steps back, waits patiently, and trusts that her turn will come. There’s a quiet dignity in that — a strength that doesn’t need to roar to be real.
She’s also always the first to come to me for love and attention, her sweetness arriving like a familiar song. And yes… she knows she’s one of my favorites. Some goats just understand the way straight into your heart.
Caroline reminds me that gentleness is strength, that patience is its own kind of courage, and that the sweetest souls often shine the brightest in the herd.

The Fighter with a Soft Spot
Tyson is the powerhouse of the herd — strong, bold, and absolutely convinced he can take on anyone (and he usually tries). His name suits him far too well. If there’s a friendly sparring match to be had, Tyson is already there, head lowered, stance firm, ready for glory.
But underneath all that toughness is a surprisingly tender heart.
For all his bravado, Tyson melts the moment someone reaches out to scratch his back. That’s his weakness — affection. He leans into it with the same intensity he brings into battle, eyes half-closed, completely undone by a simple gesture.
And when treats appear?
Tyson becomes a force of nature.
He’d mow down the entire herd — gracefully, of course — to get to the snacks first, as if victory itself depends on it. It’s impossible not to laugh at his determination.
Tyson reminds me that strength and softness can live in the same body.
That even the fiercest souls crave connection.
And that sometimes love looks like headbutts… followed by back scratches.

The Old Soul with a Quiet Crown
Handsome Bob didn’t come to us as a blank slate.
He arrived with a different name, a different life, and a best friend he’d already loved for years. Losing that friend not long after joining our herd left him wandering in a kind of quiet grief — a loner, unsure where he fit, carrying a past no one else here shared.
For a long time, Bob kept to himself.
He wasn’t mean or standoffish, just… lost.
An old soul learning how to belong again.
Slowly, though, he found a bit of camaraderie with the bucks he now lives with. It’s not the same bond he once had, but it’s a comfort. A new chapter. Healing, in its own slow, steady way.
Bob has very particular tastes.
He has zero interest in sweet treats, fruit, or anything resembling a dessert. Offer him something sugary and he’ll look at you like you’ve deeply misunderstood him. Vegetables? Yes. Always. Without question.
But there is one exception:
animal crackers.
When those appear, Bob transforms.
He doesn’t push, shove, or make a scene — he simply fixes me with a stare so intense, so self-assured, that it feels like he’s saying:
“I command you to bend to my will and give me a cracker.”
And somehow… it works every time.
Within the herd, Bob demands dominance — except when it comes to Grace. She bosses him around with the resigned energy of a nagging wife, and he takes it with a patience that is both hilarious and oddly endearing. Even kings bow to queens, I suppose.
For all his history, Handsome Bob has a soft side.
He loves scratches along his spine, leaning into them with the quiet relief of someone who’s finally found a safe place to land. There’s a sweetness to him beneath the gruff exterior, a tenderness that appears slowly, like trust returning after a long winter.
Handsome Bob reminds me that healing isn’t loud, that strength can be gentle, and that even those who carry sorrow can find their way back to belonging — one cracker, one scratch, one moment at a time.

The Tiny Warrior with the Biggest Heart
Ory came into our lives as a three-pound bottle baby — small enough to fit in the crook of an arm, fragile enough to make us hold our breath, and sweet enough to steal our hearts instantly. His name comes from “Oreo,” chosen lovingly by my child for his black-and-white coloring, a perfect fit for a goat who seems made of contrasts: tiny but fearless, gentle but determined, soft but stubborn.
Even now, Ory is on the smaller side, but he absolutely refuses to act like it.
He’ll take on anyone — especially if there’s food involved — standing his ground with surprising fierceness. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in spirit. And in confidence. And in volume, when necessary.
He’s also a master of the sneak-attack escape.
The moment the stall door cracks open, Ory thinks it’s a personal invitation to slip past me, trot triumphantly into forbidden territory, and pretend he has no idea he wasn't supposed to be there. He’s sneaky in the most charming way — the kind of mischief you can’t stay mad at.
But where Ory truly shines is in his affection.
He is one of the biggest attention hogs in the entire herd, leaning into every touch, every scratch, every moment of closeness like he was made for it. Sweet doesn’t begin to cover him. His bottle-baby beginnings left him deeply bonded to people, and he carries that tenderness into every stage of his life.
Ory reminds me that courage isn’t measured in size, that love can make the smallest among us mighty, and that sometimes the tiniest goats have the largest presence in your heart.

The Watchful Heart Learning to Trust
Penny is a gorgeous doe with a mother’s patience and a survivor’s caution. She’s Ory’s biological mama — though life separated them long before either of them found their way to us — which already makes her story feel woven with a quiet kind of destiny. It’s as if pieces of her were here all along, just waiting to come home.
From the very beginning, Penny has watched me with a level of awareness that borders on profound. She studies every movement, every gesture, every intention. Not with fear — but with the guarded wisdom of someone who learned early in life that trust is something to be earned, not given freely.
Even though this is only her second home, her mannerisms make it seem as if she has lived a long life full of reasons to be wary of humans. She keeps her distance, holds herself with poise, and protects her space with quiet determination.
But like all good stories, ours is slowly shifting.
It started with treats — of course it did. Penny is especially fond of animal crackers, though she pretended not to be at first. I began by placing them on the ground, allowing her to decide if she wanted them, allowing her to choose closeness or distance.
Then one day she took one from my hand.
Then another.
Then one a little closer.
And slowly, carefully, cautiously, she began accepting touch — mostly on her neck or back, always in a place where she could keep a watchful eye on me. Her boundaries are crystal clear, and I respect them. That’s how trust grows between two beings who both understand the weight of it.
We’re not yet at the point where Penny comes to me just for attention…
but we’re getting there.
I can feel it.
And I know when that day comes, it will feel like a small miracle — the kind of quiet, precious grace that takes time, patience, and a gentle heart to receive.
Penny reminds me that healing is slow, trust is sacred, and that some of the most beautiful relationships are the ones built carefully, brick by brick, moment by moment.

The Elegant Matriarch with a Hidden Sweet Tooth
Hannah is Tyson’s mother, and it shows in every line of her strong, statuesque frame. She carries the same power, the same confidence, the same unspoken “don’t mess with me” energy — but wrapped in a grace that makes her one of the most beautiful goats in the entire herd. Everything she does, from the way she walks to the way she surveys her pasture, feels intentional. Regal, even.
But beneath all that elegance lies a completely different truth:
Hannah would absolutely sell her soul for treats.
Cheerios, animal crackers, apples — nothing is safe. Nothing.
For a goat who looks like a ballerina, she becomes a full-contact linebacker the moment she suspects food is involved. She has no shame in it, either. If snacks are present, Hannah will mow down anything in her path, including me, all while maintaining a surprising amount of poise. It’s a talent.
When she first came to us, trust didn’t come quickly. She watched me carefully, keeping her distance, unsure of what affection meant in this new life. She valued space, independence, control.
And then, slowly, she let me in.
Now she seeks out scratches behind her ears and along her neck, leaning into my hand with a softness that feels like an earned privilege. Seeing her choose connection — her choice, her timing — is its own kind of grace.
Unless I have a treat.
Then all bets are off.
Elegant, powerful, beautiful Hannah reminds me that strength and softness can share the same body, that trust can grow quietly over time, and that sometimes the most graceful souls have a wild streak that makes them unforgettable.

The Wild-Hearted Dork with the Soulful Blue Eyes

Jack is the definition of chaotic charm — wild, kooky, goofy, and completely impossible not to love. He’s small in size, but you’d never know it from the way he throws himself into life headfirst, usually quite literally.

He learned most of his nonsense from Tyson, who has apparently taken it upon himself to pass down all the worst (and funniest) habits of buckhood. Thanks to Tyson’s mentorship, Jack has mastered:

• jumping where no goat should jump

• fence-related acrobatics

• wedging himself into places no living creature should fit

• getting stuck in ways that defy all known laws of physics

Every day with Jack is a surprise — sometimes concerning, always entertaining.

Despite his small stature, Jack is mighty.
Mighty stubborn.
Mighty brave.
Mighty determined to prove he’s not someone to overlook.

Whether it’s hay or treats, Jack insists on getting his equal share — and he will not back down from Tyson, Handsome Bob, or anyone else, no matter how much larger they are. His confidence is almost delusional… which is part of his charm.

And then there are his eyes.

Those shockingly beautiful blue eyes have a way of locking onto mine with such intensity it feels like he can read every thought, every dream, every part of who I am. It’s unsettling and magical at the same time — like looking into a tiny, mischievous oracle.

Jack is also one of the first bucks to demand attention.
He’ll press his head against me with full expectation, as if declaring:

“You exist to scratch me. Possibly to give me crackers. And that is all.”

To Jack, I am not the herd queen, nor the treat distributor… but a humble servant whose sole purpose is scratches and snacks. And honestly? He’s probably right.

Jack reminds me that spirit matters more than size, that joy can be found in ridiculous places, and that sometimes the wildest hearts are the ones most deeply connected to our own.

The Synchronized Souls of the Herd

Some goats come into a herd as individuals.
These three arrived as a unit — a perfectly synchronized sibling set that moves with the grace and coordination of swimmers gliding through water. They are inseparable in a way that feels almost sacred. If one wanders too far, the other two unravel. If separated, they dissolve into absolute meltdowns until they are reunited.

They are gentleness embodied.
Quiet in personality.
Soft in presence.
And tender in the way they exist in the herd.

None of the trio demands dominance, territory, or rank.
They simply drift with the flow of pasture life — steady, calm, and always together.

And yet… each one carries a story of trust, healing, and personality all their own.

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Charlotte

The Heart That Opens Easily

Charlotte was one of the first to trust you — quickly, effortlessly, openly. She has a sweetness that settles into your spirit the moment she comes near. Her eyes hold no hesitation, only a gentle curiosity and a readiness to connect.

She approaches with soft confidence, not demanding, not anxious — simply present. She is the kind of goat who reminds you that some hearts are just naturally open, that trust can sometimes come as easily as breath.

Charlotte drifts through the herd with calm acceptance, leaning into her siblings for comfort and leaning into you for affection. She is a quiet blessing in the pasture — an echo of grace in its simplest form.

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 Sharyn

The Quiet Companion

Sharyn carries a similar softness to Charlotte, but with her own distinct presence — calm, observant, tender. She trusted you early on as well, offering her affection without the careful testing that some goats require. There’s a serenity in her, a way of watching the world that feels peaceful and wise.

Like her siblings, she does not seek dominance or challenge.
She simply exists in harmony, at ease with her place, her herd, her people.

Sharyn is the gentle whisper of the trio.
Not loud, not demanding — but deeply comforting simply by being close. She teaches you that companionship doesn’t always need words or energy… sometimes it just needs presence.

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Skit

The Skittish Heart Who Learned to Trust

Skit earned his name honestly. He carried hesitation like a cloak, flinching at closeness, staying just out of reach, watching with wide eyes that asked every question but never voiced a single one. His trust was a slow journey — one built with patience, gentleness, and consistent love.

But the day he came to you willingly…
the day he asked for affection, even tentatively…
that was a breakthrough worth celebrating.

And celebrate you did — with treats, love, and more joy than he had ever experienced at once. It was a holy little moment, a glimpse of what happens when a frightened heart decides the world might be safe after all.

Skit still carries a tender caution, but now he steps toward you with bravery that feels hard-won and precious. He is proof that trust given slowly is often the deepest trust of all.

Together, They Are…

• the trio that moves as one

• the soft thread woven through the herd

• the quiet harmony among strong personalities

• the living picture of gentle, loyal companionship

Sharyn, Charlotte, and Skit remind you that not every story is loud.
Some are soft.
Some are steady.
Some are written in the spaces between three small bodies walking side by side — always together, always connected, always grace in motion.

The Determined Diva with Grace in Every Curve

Stella is a presence — and she knows it. Round, soft, and delightfully reminiscent of a Teletubby, she carries her extra curves with a kind of unapologetic confidence that is both hilarious and admirable. Her nickname, Stella Bella, suits her perfectly. Even with her lovely girth, she moves with surprising grace — every step purposeful, every motion controlled, as if she’s dancing to music only she can hear.

But don’t let her elegance fool you.
Stella has determination unmatched by any goat in the barn.

When food is involved, she becomes a force of nature.
When the barn door opens, she transforms into a competitive sprinter whose only goal is to be first out, even if it means gently (or not-so-gently) nudging others aside. Somehow she always gets where she wants to go — eventually, strategically, inevitably.

As for affection?
Stella is very clear about the terms.

She will accept scratches, but only when she decides it is the correct moment. She’ll approach with her chin slightly lifted, her gaze steady, her expectations obvious. If she does not want attention, she carries herself with a regal distance, as if to say:

“Not now. I have priorities.”

Her love is selective.
Her boundaries are firm.
Her independence is unwavering.

And yet there is something deeply endearing about her — this graceful, determined diva who moves through pasture life on her own schedule, in her own rhythm, with her own brand of beauty and strength.

Stella reminds me that worthiness isn’t about size or speed or softness — it’s about knowing who you are, moving with intention, and accepting love only when your heart is ready.

If you have more goats, I’m ready for the next one.
If Stella is the last, I can craft a closing section for the Meet the Herd page to tie all your goat stories together beautifully.

The Fierce Heart Who Learned to Love

Buck is Rana’s daughter, and she carries her mother’s presence in every line of her body — the bold stance, the deep, searching eyes, the stubborn will, and the unmistakable fire that makes her impossible to overlook.

But her journey with you wasn’t easy.

When she first joined the herd, Buck wanted nothing to do with humans, especially not with the idea of affection. She met every approach with distance, suspicion, and a fierce determination to “buck off” any attempt at connection. Her boundaries were ironclad, her spirit unyielding. She wasn’t just standoffish — she was committed to protecting herself from a world she didn’t yet trust.

But like all powerful stories, her resistance didn’t last forever.

Brick by brick, moment by moment, she began to let you in. Slowly at first — a step closer, a softened gaze, a hesitation that wavered just long enough for love to slip through. And then, one day, something shifted fully.

Now she doesn’t just accept affection —
she aggressively seeks it.
She rushes toward attention, toward treats, toward any ounce of love you’re willing to give. She transformed from a guarded fortress into a force of affection, hungry for connection as if making up for all the time she spent withholding it.

Her eyes — those deep, soul-searching eyes — are her mother’s gift.
When Buck looks at you, it feels like she’s peering straight into the center of who you are, reading emotions you haven’t spoken, seeing things you didn’t know were visible. Her gaze is bold, unflinching, and oddly comforting, as if she’s saying:

“I know you. I see you. You’re safe.”

And when she receives attention, the world narrows.
Just like with Rana, it becomes a sacred little bubble —
just you and her, two beings sharing a moment untouched by anything outside it.

Buck is a living reminder that trust earned slowly runs deep,
that fierce hearts can become the most affectionate ones,
and that sometimes the most guarded souls are the ones who love the hardest once they finally let go.

The Wooly Wanderer with a Quiet Heart

Steve arrived with Caroline, both of them bottle babies — but while Caroline bloomed into a princess of affection and attention, Steve chose a different path entirely. Where she sought out love, he seemed to tuck himself into the background, content to be the quiet shadow in a herd full of vibrant personalities.

With his wild coat and unruly hair, Steve looks a bit like a wooly mammoth in goat form — charming, scruffy, unmistakable. He doesn’t bother grooming for appearances or positioning himself for social status. Instead, he moves at his own pace, observing more than participating, drifting rather than demanding.

Despite being raised with human hands, Steve carries a distance in him — not fear, not distrust… just a deep contentment in being left alone. He doesn’t seek affection from me or even from the kids, though he accepts care with calm resignation. He receives, but rarely asks.

And yet, he is not weak.

When food is involved or dominance lines shift among the younger goats, Steve stands his ground with surprising resolve. He doesn’t fight for rank, but he refuses to be pushed aside. There’s quiet strength in him — the kind that doesn’t announce itself but makes itself known when necessary.

His most curious relationship is with Grace.
Sometimes she’ll share a bowl with him — a rare honor few goats are ever granted. Other times she shoos him away like an annoying little brother. But in her inconsistent acceptance, Steve seems to have found his closest thing to a herd bond. Not quite friendship, not quite alliance — something softer and more mysterious than either.

Every day, I make sure he gets his share of food.
Every day, he receives it without fuss.
Every day, he remains steady, solitary, and entirely himself.

Steve’s story is quieter than the others, but no less meaningful.
He reminds me that not every soul is meant to be loud, social, or outwardly affectionate. Some hearts are built for solitude. Some find comfort in watching rather than joining. Some simply don’t need the herd to feel whole.

And there is grace in that, too.

The Frog-Throated Princess with the Eyes of an Old Soul

Rana got her name from the unmistakable sound she makes whenever she’s demanding food, bossing her herd mates, or insisting that I give her the attention she believes is rightfully hers. It’s a deep, gravelly, frog-in-the-throat sort of call — and once you hear it, there’s no mistaking who it belongs to.
Rana—Spanish for frog—fits her perfectly.

In the herd’s hierarchy, Rana reigns as the domineering princess, second only to Grace herself. And she knows it. She reminds every other goat exactly where she stands in the line of power, often loudly, often repeatedly, and sometimes with a flair that only she can pull off. Hers is a sovereignty maintained through sheer presence — an aura of authority wrapped in a petite, frog-voiced body.

But Rana is far more than her sass and dominance.

She has deep, dark, soulful eyes — the kind that seem to hold stories long before they’re spoken. When she demands my attention (in that gravelly, enchanting croak of hers) and I give it to her, she looks at me with such intensity that the entire herd disappears. For that moment, it’s only her and me.

Her gaze feels like she’s trying to tell me every secret, every shift in the herd, every emotion she’s ever felt — simply through the way she holds my eyes. It’s an unspoken conversation, rich and grounding.

Rana is demanding, tough, insistent, and unwavering.
But beneath that strong exterior is a sweetness so sincere it has the power to calm my soul instantly. Her affection arrives like a quiet surrender — rare, precious, deeply meaningful.

She enjoys treats, but only under certain conditions. Rana doesn’t beg for them. She demands them, specifically when others want them — as if asserting, “If they get them, then so shall I.”

Rana reminds me of the beauty in contradictions:
that power can coexist with tenderness,
that dominance can come with sincerity,
and that even the strongest voices sometimes carry the softest hearts.

The Little Hopper Who Took a Piece of My Heart with Her

Roo was Penny’s daughter — a piece of a story we didn’t get to start at the beginning, but one that became unforgettable from the moment she entered our home. She arrived with her brother Ory as a tiny bottle baby, only three days old, small enough to hold in one hand yet big enough to shift the atmosphere of a room. Mischievous, bright-eyed, full of life, Roo didn’t just live in the house — she commanded it.

She got her name honestly. When she ran, she didn’t simply sprint like the others. She hopped — joyfully, wildly, beautifully — like a little kangaroo. Penny sometimes moved the same way, and seeing Roo do it felt like watching a living echo of the mother she would never get to know.

Roo knew from the start that she had my whole heart.
And she used that knowledge with every ounce of playful boldness she had.
She was my favorite — not because I chose her to be, but because she chose me.

Losing her at around four months old shattered something inside me. We believe she got into the chicken feed — one of those accidents you can’t prepare for, one of those heartbreaks you replay over and over, searching for some detail you might have missed. I tried everything. Every intervention, every call, every desperate attempt to keep her here just a little longer.

She died in my arms.

And in that moment, something deeper broke open.
Losing Roo mirrored, in devastating ways, the loss of my daughter Addison.
The same helplessness.
The same pleading.
The same frantic hope.
The same unbearable finality.

The grief that I’ve carried for Addi — the grief I’ve learned to hold quietly just beneath the surface — rushed forward with Roo’s passing and swallowed me whole. The pain was familiar in a way that hurt too much to name.

And yet… like Addi, Roo left a mark that didn’t fade.
A love that didn’t disappear.
A memory that lives in the present, not the past.

I think of her every day.
I miss her every day.
And she will always have a place in my heart and in the story of this farm.

Roo was mischievous.
Roo was beloved.
Roo was grace in a small, hopping body.
She changed me — and losing her changed me again.

Some souls, no matter how brief their time, stay with us forever.
Roo is one of mine.

My Quiet Knight, Gentle Lover

Lance was Tyson’s brother — son of powerful, elegant Hannah — but their spirits could not have been more different. Where Tyson was bold, loud, commanding, and ready to take on the world, Lance was the soft heartbeat in the background… steady, loving, and entirely devoted.

He didn’t try to dominate the herd.
He didn’t crave the spotlight.
He didn’t demand respect or position.

Lance wanted one thing and one thing only:
my love.
And he asked for it with a tenderness that felt almost human.

I used to call him Lance my lover, or my quiet knight, because that’s exactly what he was — gentle, attentive, devoted in a way I’ve rarely seen in an animal. If he’d had hands, I swear he would have caressed my arms, tracing the lines of my skin, telling me in his own silent language how much he adored me. Every time he leaned into me, every time he rested his head against my side, he offered a love that was pure and uncomplicated.

His presence was soft, grounding, soul-deep.
He wasn’t loud, but he was felt.
He wasn’t demanding, but he was constant.

The only thing Lance ever commanded was my attention, and he had it freely — joyfully — because loving him was effortless.

Losing him was devastating in its suddenness and cruelty.
We didn’t know the twine was there.
We didn’t know it could take him from us.
But it did.

He choked himself accidentally, a tragic and senseless end to a life that deserved so much more time, so much more love, so many more quiet moments pressed against my arm. It still feels unfair, the way gentle souls are sometimes taken with such blunt force.

But his life — his short, beautiful, affectionate life — was worth remembering.

Lance loved me with a fullness few animals ever achieve.
He trusted me with his whole heart.
He saw me, chose me, and stayed close every chance he got.

And I loved him back — deeply, honestly, fiercely.

Lance will always be my quiet knight,
my tender companion,
my lover-goat with the soft eyes and softer spirit.

His story ended too soon,
but his love didn’t.
It lives on in the spaces he once filled,
in the memories that warm and ache all at once,
and in the part of my heart he carved out as his own.

Some loves never fade.
Lance is one of mine.