What do you think of when you hear the word ‘goat’? It’s an animal with a wealth of associations, and many not that positive: lust, gluttony and evil – in Western culture, anyway. They’re known to be nimble-footed – think mountain goat – and for climbing stuff. Hold that thought.

Our family, collectively and individually, hasn’t had much interaction with goats over the decades. I’d venture to say they haven’t even come up in conversation much, if at all. Except in connection with goat’s cheese for salads, pizza and of course crumbled over smashed avo on toast. Indeed, a great proportion of animal and vegetable subjects arrive in Corner Cottage conversations through their potential comestibility.

Culturally, Greek mythology and subsequent reinterpretations thereof, give us rather disturbing half-goat people like Pan, god of shepherds, flocks and outdoor partying; similar to the satyrs that gambolled with Dionysus as he quaffed wine in sylvan glades. Satyrs were often depicted in a state of  . . . engorgement, shall we say, so their association with lustfulness is pretty clear, although they were also big fans of dancing and drinking.

Christianity gives us the concept of the scapegoat: an innocent beast loaded with the sins of mankind and sent off into the wilderness, leaving everyone free of guilt and consequences. Not difficult to see the connection with Christ himself, suffering on the cross and all that. Quite different from the traditional association of the animal with Satan – another goatlike being with horns, square-pupilled eyes and chin-beard based squarely on the billy goat’s physiognomy. Look into any goat’s eye and you’ll see the basis of this convention – chilling, let me tell you.  

It’s worth pondering that goat doesn’t really feature in most European and North American cuisines. You can get a delicious meat pie in Kefalonia that combines goat, beef, pork, feta cheese with garlic and parsley; apparently France has a passing appetite for the meat of the goat (which given the foie gras, snails and frogs’ legs shouldn’t be a great surprise); Spain is given to sampling a tender kid now and then (which is logical if you consider its close relationship with North African culture); but for the most part, it’s not a staple of the white western table.

We’ll happily consume goat’s cheese in various forms – including sprinkled on pizza – and goat’s milk is not unknown as a super-saturated calcium-rich alternative to cow’s milk for those in need of nutritionally-dense supplementation. I don’t know why the milk is OK while we turn up our noses at the meat – especially when for much of the rest of the world, it’s regarded as a delicacy.

So anyway, today we had a crash course in all things goat – well, miniature goat, anyway. After a morning’s labour in the garden (it’s all coming along quite nicely, thanks for asking), just about the time I was thinking of putting my feet up with a nice cup of tea, our lovely niece called, looking for help. She’s something of a force of nature, this girl: she has a deep connection with animals and a propensity for seeking out puppies and horses in need of love.

She’d located three miniature goats in need of a home and wanted to transport them 40km or so to the farm where she’d care for them. Our chugging old SUV would be the perfect conveyance – and with the promise of a drive out to a picturesque part of the district on a sunny afternoon, it was a no-brainer. We hit the road within minutes, speculating about possible monetisation options for the new herd.

It’s best to keep an open mind on these missions – you just don’t know what will transpire when you’re knee-deep in a situation with precedent in your life’s experience. Thus it was on the smallholding where we picked up the goats. The introductions were conducted with due formality and the hairy little critters seemed quite tame and engaging. They did seem to be rather too interesting in nibbling my trouser seams, but that was easily laughed off.

We repaired to the house to fill out the paperwork (there’s bureaucracy everywhere these days) and discuss feeding and the like. When we emerged, the goats were on the roof of the car. They like clambering up things, as we well know, but it seemed a little unmannerly given that we’d just been introduced. You’d think they’d ask first.

Getting them settled in the back also took some doing. You’d get two in, and while the third was being inserted, one of the others would leap out. It took three of us to wedge them in, with me lugging the last one awkwardly in my arms with its horns providing some acute jabs to the general chest and throat region.

Once under way, we enjoyed their rich fragrance and a three-part harmony of what can best be described as baa-aas. For a while it seemed like the whole mission had been a bad idea. It felt like we were ripping the poor kids from their mother’s breast. Or udder – you know what I mean. But soon the motion of the car and the throaty throb of the engine seemed to lull them to sleep and silence descended. The aroma, however, remained.

Arrived at their new home, the threesome performed as expected: they immediately tucked into whatever grass or leaves presented themselves, baaa-ed a bit, and refused to respond to cajoling or commands to get into their enclosure. True to form, two eventually did, but the third would not – and required carrying, with the horns-throat proximity to keep things interesting. At least they didn’t climb on the car, right?

I left the niece scattering straw in the little goats’ sleeping quarters as they munched at the grass in their enclosure and trying to follow me out of the gate. I drove off through a sylvan late-afternoon scene with all the windows open, pondering these new beasts. They seemed OK: single-minded, persistent, a little prone to pessimism, but ever seeking new heights – typical Capricorns, really.