Justin's family had goats, and they drank the milk, to the exclusion
of what I called regular milk or good milk. When I was over and we
were having a meal they would roll out the goat milk as a beverage or
as some kind or blasphemous insult to cold cereal. I was not a fan
and would try and avoid it at all costs. What I did love though was
milking goats. Justin was in the rotation to milk them, a job he was
not super excited about but I really loved doing it. You would walk
the goat up onto a stand and secure her head with a lever and to keep
her occupied and docile you fed her at the same time. Unlike cows
which have four teats goats have two which is ideal for the two
handed milker. The goats expect a firm and rhythmic milking and not
only tolerate it but seem to get relief from the pressure of their
udders so they are interested in getting milked for that reason. What
makes them agitated is when an amateur like myself was yanking
clumsily at the teat instead of applying the steady smooth pressure
that extracted milk quickly and efficiently. I could barely get out a
trickle while Justin and Ryan could make the metal pail ring with the
jet of milk hitting its side. They could also turn that awesome
extractive power for evil by pointing it at me and squirting a warm
stream of goat milk right into my face. I would always want to give
them a little payback but my retaliation fell as droplets out of the
teat going no more than a few inches and giving my targets more of a
cause for laughter then the thorough goat milk soaking they deserved.
