I had been talking to a local Boer goat breeder named Johanna about getting a few percentage doelings to start my possible flock for a few months now. Every time I spoke to her over the phone, either she was just about to go on vacation or my fence wasn't quite ready--always something. I had gotten the idea of goats in my head somewhere around Christmas, and had been working on my fence and barn for six months. Finally I was going to meet her and her goats face to face. An exciting moment.

When I pulled into the driveway of the neat little yellow-painted farm house, she wasn't there. A nice man who was renting the house showed me around while I waited for her to show up. A sizeable flock of Boer does and kids gazed at us inquiringly through a strong-looking fence, while a white livestock guard dog of indeterminant breed barked at us unceasingly, waving its tail but not encouraging me to get any closer.

After a while Johanna showed up, running late. She showed me the few non-show goat kids she had for sale, and I immediately gravitated toward a stocky little red goat with a white spot on her side, and an adorable just-weaned white one with a dark chocolate head with a star and crooked white stripe down her nose. They were both quite tame and friendly. Johanna saw Bonnie sitting in my car and asked what she was.

"Oh, does she work?"

Well, yeah, I guess so.

"Think she could herd goats? Because I have a few more kids I could show you, but they're in a flock I've got working on a weed-clearing job, and I can't bring them out for you to look at, because my husband's got the dog today."

I said I was sure Bonnie would give it her best shot, and we drove out to the field, which ran down to a local slough. Inside the locked gate was a steep, chewed-over clearing, and then another open gate behind which all I could see was a sea of eight foot tall poison hemlock and himalayan blackberry. "Uh, go find 'em, Bonnie," I said encouragingly, and off she bounded into the thicket. In a few minutes there was a great rustling and out sprang thirty-odd goats, followed by Bonnie with her eyes popping out of her head with excitement.

Once they could actually see what was chasing them, it turned into quite a free for all, with goats splitting and rebunching every which way while Bonnie raced madly to group them. These were NOT sheep--if she pressed them too hard, the biggest ones would turn and challenge her, delaying her while the others fled in all different directions. I thought it was a horrible mess, but she was determined if not skilled, and she eventually got them pinned comfortably against the fence where I could see the two little white doelings that were on offer. I selected one of them, and we set a date for when I could come get them in my truck.

I went home rather proud of my dog for trying so hard in a difficult situation. I had no idea just how hard it was going to become.

A few days later I drove out again, this time in my pickup, with my friends Jim and Kathleen who were visiting from North Carolina, Bonnie, a training pole, my corgi, and a bale of alfalfa. Of all of these items, only Bonnie was going to prove to be useful. At the farm, Johanna loaned me an extra-large airline crate and we carried the little red goat and the little chocolate-and-white goat over to the truck and put them in the crate. Neither weighed more than forty pounds, and seemed quite calm about the whole thing.

Next we caravaned to the slough field, where once again there were no goats to be seen. I sent Bonnie and she disappeared. A long wait, rustling, and then Bonnie appeared with no goats. Uh oh. I waded into the weeds a bit and tried to cast her farther out, but once again she came back without the goats. Go on, get around, Go bye, atta girl, go find 'em! I kept calling, but she didn't seem to be able to locate them. It was very hot, very steep, very humid, and the only forward movement possible for a dog was by leaping and struggling through a tangle of fallen canes and brambles. I thrashed farther and farther out into the weeds, occasionally seeing a glimpse of a fleeing goat. I lost touch with Bonnie completely. I couldn't see more than a few feet in any direction, and the only way I knew what direction I was going was that the slope ran straight down into the water.

At last I came to the corner of the back fence, and there Bonnie was, barking and feinting at a big horned goat, behind whom was sheltering three kids, including a little white one. With extreme caution I sidled up through the weeds and lunged for it, grabbing it by the legs. This one Bonnie! We got her! Let's get her home!

A nightmare. The goat was too big to carry, too flighty to herd through the brambles and canes, and she refused to lead, either. I was damned if I was going to let her get away, though, so I dragged her by the horns, inch by inch, through the thicket, while Bonnie goosed her in the rear when she lay down and refused to move, which was often. Or mostly.

We persevered, however, and finally, finally, emerged into the clearing, where Jim and Kathleen were waiting for us, along with almost all the rest of the goats. Bonnie, my captured goat, and I were all utterly exhausted. Kathleen said, "Johanna had to leave to take her children home. She said she'd come back tomorrow with her dog. She said she knew you wouldn't catch the goat."

Jim added, "And I hate to tell you this, but you've got the wrong one. It's the little one there with black horns that she sold you, not that one."

It was almost dusk. Bonnie's tongue was dragging, she'd been working at maximum for a couple of hours now. I was covered with dirt and so hot I thought my head might just explode. I let my capture go, and off she scampered. "Way t' me, Bonnie," I said.

Bonnie ran out, and with enormous difficulty and considerable yelling we got the whole herd clumped up. I tried pushing them between Jim and the fence so he could grab the selected kid as she trotted by, but he barely made a gesture and they all effortlessly evaded him. That wasn't going to work.

Bonnie saw the goat we had dragged out of the brush escaping and abandoned the rest of the flock to try and head her. She got her cornered at the top of the hill ignoring me screaming "NO, NO, LEAVE IT! come in! Come IN!" She plainly thought I was crazy for letting the very goat we had captured with such pains go free, but in the nick of time let her go and came rushing down to head off my real purchase, who was making a break for it. "THIS ONE, THIS ONE!" I was screaming like a hysteric while trying to corner the goat in the middle of an open field.

Bonnie flew down and blocked her, and suddenly we had the goat between the two of us, dashing to and fro looking for escape. "GET HER GET HER" I cried and Bonnie blocked her right and left and right and left and when I saw my opportunity I launched out and tackled her like a football player and we both went down in a heap. Kathleen and Jim cheered, and we carried my little white goat to the truck in triumph.

Well, it wasn't pretty, and I'm sure a lot of people and dogs could have done that job simple as pie and with style, but we got 'er done, huh Bonnie? I just hope we never have to do it again.