Just as ducks are not, as it turns out, aquatic chickens, neither are goats sheep with tails that stick up. Sheep are more like, well, ducks--they are fearful, limited, and herdbound. What the lead sheep decides, they all decide too. If they aren't crowded or panicked, they prefer to flow all together, like one organism. Goats test, sample, mull over. You can watch a goat and see it considering. Sheep, if they do consider, conceal it behind an expressionless façade which could also be interpreted more uncharitably as dimness of mind. Goats stick together, but they're each in some way on their own as well.These qualities are not all that easy for a herding dog to deal with. But, they are certainly entertaining.

The first time I had to pen my three little doelings for the night, it took three people and a dog twenty minutes. It was like penning mexican jumping beans, much complicated by the lack of a good gate—at present I am making do with a floppy piece of hogwire fencing nailed to a board. The second night, Bonnie and I were alone, which worried me, since I was already breaking out in poison oak from the adventures of night before. However, Bonnie quickly roused out the two tamest, who were already friends, and they fetched easily to the pen, where a little alfalfa kept them entertained. These were Melba (the red one with the white patch on her side) and Tule, the Boer-colored baby, whom I named, for no particular reason, after the giant reed native to California—pronounced 'tulee'.

Meanwhile, Snowdie the Wild had retreated to the densest thicket of brambles with just her little black horns sticking out. Bonnie sussed her out quickly, and almost managed to pen her, but she dove out again and disappeared. Bonnie disagreed with this, and in a few moments Snowdie came rushing back with Bonnie on her heels, dashed into the pen, and stood radiating alarm while I hooked the makeshift gate laboriously closed.

The third night, I just stood at the pen opening and sent Bonnie, and she arrived with all three goats in short order and without incident. The fourth night, all three goats were already waiting for me in the pen. Why bother running away, when it's so much easier to just show up where we're going to have to go anyway, they plainly thought. Sheep don't seem to think this way. When I gather Gwen's sheep, which I have done about a hundred times, they invariably make a break for the end of the pasture, even though they will only be fetched back again. They can't help it, they can only think: Dog! Bad News For Sheep! Run!

Goats have a well-deserved reputation for opening gates, rubbing down fences, climbing corner bracing, and then eating your apple tree and dancing on your car. My goats, being meat goats, are stocky creatures, reputedly not quite so prone to such antics. Plus, they have about half an acre of brambles and brush to explore. Anybody would get bored in a little pen with nothing to eat but dried grass--especially anyone intelligent and curious who doesn't like grass that much anyway. However, the five thousand gallon water tank which all rural properties in this county are required to have for fire protection is in their enclosure, and in their first week they managed to break the riser which connects the tank to our well. This was accomplished by jumping on it; I know this because I saw them do it.

Two nights ago we got home at midnight, something I try hard to avoid. Tule, Melba, and Snowdie were bedded down in the straw of their pen, chewing their miniature cuds. I gave them a bite of grain and closed the gate against bobcats and coyotes. The chickens were in their rows on their roosts. Cut that out Bonnie! She was on her hind legs nosing the moon vine growing up the outside of the coop. A panicky squawk, and a pullet who had decided to do an adventitious roost flapped down to the ground. That's my herding dog, always thinking "is everything like it's supposed to be? If not, I'm going to fix it."

The ducks, who dislike their Predator-proof Duck Box, were where they always are, under the rose bushes. I'd already made quite a mess trying to herd ducks at night once before, so I was extra extra cautious. To no avail. Bonnie spooked them, they ran blindly every which way, and one ran between my legs and disappeared into the darkness. I said some bad words, and Bonnie caught and pinned the duck behind the wood pile. I thought she was going to eat it, so I screamed at her to let it go.

Nope, I got it, boss!

GET OUT! I yelled, and she backed away, and the duck scuttled through the deer fence into the trackless fenceless midnight woods.

I thought about peacefully going to bed and waking up with one fewer ducks, but no, I had a responsibility to my livestock, so I pulled on my heavy boots and started hiking. There is no gate on that side of the property, so it is a long slog through the forest just to get to the point where the duck disappeared. I would never have found it without Bonnie, but she found it in about three seconds. This time I let her pin it for me.

Carrying the duck back home under my arm, I thought, once I start hoping my animals get eaten by predators, it's probably a sign that it's time for them to move on. My brief foray into duck farming was coming to a close.