I swear, I just went for hay.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing emotional. Just a regular farm run.
I even had a list, neatly written and folded in the front pocket of my flannel. Hay. Feed pellets. A new latch for the chicken coop door because the old one had started flapping like it wanted to escape with the hens.
That was it. In and out.
I wasn’t supposed to walk past the back lot. The one with the hand-painted “Farm Rescue Animals” sign nailed to a crooked fencepost. But there’s something about that place—the quiet of it, the soft sounds of animals adjusting to second chances. It pulls on you.
Especially when you’ve had a hard week.
Especially when your heart feels a little too soft and your eyes too ready to water at the sight of anything small, helpless, and fuzzy.
That’s when I saw them.
Two baby goats. One white, one cocoa-brown. Practically tangled together, legs folded like little cranes, heads tucked against each other’s sides. Like they’d been born hugging and had never figured out how to stop.
The white one had a little pink spot on her nose. The brown one had ears so long they nearly brushed the straw.
I froze, half a step into the enclosure.
They looked up. The white one bleated, high and hopeful. The brown one blinked slowly, as if sizing up whether I might have snacks or sanctuary.
The man running the place—Roy, according to his name patch—leaned on the gate.
“Runts,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Mama couldn’t feed both. Folks dropped ’em this morning.”
I nodded, heart pounding in that silly, unreasonable way it does when something small looks at you like you’re important.
“I’m just here for hay,” I said weakly.
Roy grinned. “Sure you are.”
I didn’t plan on picking them up.
But when I crouched down, the white one tottered over like her legs had only half learned what legs were for. She nuzzled my knee, then—without shame or ceremony—started licking my hand.
The brown one followed, more cautious, but still close. And then he licked my face.
I laughed. Actually laughed out loud, for the first time in days.
Roy watched with the kind of knowing that only comes from watching a hundred hearts get stolen in broad daylight.
“They’re bonded,” he said. “Can’t separate ’em. Most people don’t want that.”
My hand was still cradling their heads. My list, folded in my pocket, felt like a joke.
So naturally, I said, “I’ll take both.”
Which is how I found myself twenty minutes later, sitting in the bed of my truck with sixteen pounds of chaos and fluff curled up beside me. The feed store manager had helped me wrangle them into a borrowed kennel. I gave him my number. He gave me a receipt and a wink.
“I’m sure your husband will love ’em,” he said.
I hadn’t told him about my husband.
I hadn’t told anyone about this.
Because here’s the thing.
My husband is the practical one.
The planner.
The “we-don’t-need-another-animal” guy who triple-checks the budget and organizes the barn supplies alphabetically.
He’s the steady to my spontaneous.
The calm to my chaos.
And while he loves our horse, and tolerates our chickens, and even secretly feeds the barn cat more treats than he admits—he’s not exactly a “surprise goat” kind of person.
So now I’m sitting in the truck bed, with the afternoon sun slanting over the trees and two baby goats curled in my lap like we’ve been doing this forever, trying to figure out how to tell him.
“Hey honey, I went for hay and came home with heartache on hooves!”
No, too dramatic.
“Guess what? We’re goat parents now!”
Definitely not.
Maybe… “They needed someone. And I needed to be needed.”
That’s closer to the truth.
Because the week I’ve had?
It’s been rough.
A bad call from the vet about our old hound.
A long night arguing about nothing and everything.
The creeping feeling that maybe I’ve been floating, untethered, for a little too long.
And then—these two.
Looking at me like they already knew me. Like I’d been theirs from the second I stepped into that pen.
I glance down. The white one sighs in her sleep, little belly rising and falling like a feather. The brown one nudges closer, head tucked against my ribs.
They trust me.
And for a moment, I feel like that might be enough reason.
When I finally pull into the driveway, my husband’s already in the barn, tossing flakes of hay into the feeder. I park, take a deep breath, and walk around to the back.
I open the tailgate, slow and careful.
He turns at the sound and freezes mid-toss.
Two goats blink at him from their blanket.
He blinks back.
Then, slowly—deliberately—he sets down the hay and walks over.
Silence.
One heartbeat. Then two.
Then he says, “Please tell me this is your version of bringing home milk and bread.”
I laugh. Because somehow, impossibly, that’s the thing he chooses to say.
And just like that, it’s okay.
He reaches in. The brown one licks his wrist. He shakes his head.
“They’re bonded?” he asks.
“Yup,” I say. “They’re mine now.”
He looks at me for a long second.
Then: “Ours.”
Just one word. But it lands like a hug.
We carry them to the barn together.
And that night, we sit side by side, watching two tiny goats explore their new pen with wobbly confidence and stubby little hops.
I don’t say it out loud, but I think it.
Sometimes, you go looking for hay—and end up finding healing instead.
If this story made you smile, share it.
For the unexpected rescues.
For the hearts that find you when you’re not looking.
And for every “practical plan” that got beautifully derailed by love on four legs. 🐐💛🐐
