Backing up a bit...

    Once upon a time, specifically May 20, 2013, after a very long seven months of searching, Brian and I closed on a house in the area of town we were hoping to stay.  The road out front was a little busy, but the house was nice and the yard was better than anything we'd seen in the neighborhoods we were hoping to move into, complete with an inground pool, beautiful deck and patio, 3.64 acres and a pond besides.  We were pretty much sold after the first showing, despite being in a price range that was a bit higher than we were hoping.  It was the first house that had things we were both hoping for- an open floor plan and a master bathroom for me, and for Brian the yard and two sheds to hold his collection of man-town supplies.  It was the first time I was actually even excited about the yard.  It had a little spring which bubbled into a stream to feed the pond, frogs and toads for the kids to catch, box turtles basking on a log by the pond, ducks, and even a pair of beavers.  In the early summer the fireflies lit the backyard up into an amazing show, some nights I would just find myself staring out the window at them.  It really had everything.  

     Everything, we found out after inviting Brian's brother over, including Poison Ivy, and, we found out after we invited friends over, a LOT of it.  The poison ivy was all along the brushy area that bordered our yard, and around the pond, up the trees, and even spreading out a bit in the grass.  

    "See then, we DO need goats!" exclaimed my husband, who had grown up with a couple of goats and a pony and with every house we looked at had determined how many "head" of livestock we could have. 

    "We're NOT getting goats!" I replied, amused but also a little tired of hearing that we needed goats from both he and the girls, who ate up all of his goat stories and plotted names for the goats and horses on their imaginary farm.  "And if we were getting goats, we wouldn't let them eat poison ivy, that's just cruel!"  

    "Kris, goats EAT poison ivy, people actually get them for that purpose!" 

    Our friend agreed with him, but I continued to argue this fact until Brian showed me a couple of websites that argued his case, but even then I was skeptical, after all, you can't believe everything you read on the internet, especially when your sanity might be on the line.  

    About a week later, I was still determined that poison ivy consumption would be equivalent to goat abuse.  The girls were watching morning cartoons on PBS, which at eight o'clock had switched to their favorite show, Curious George.  George was out in the country with his yellow-clad friend again, helping the farmers next door with their chores, when what should appear (for the first time EVER to my recollection, and we've been watching this show for a looongg time) but a pair adorable little goats who were about to be sold from the farm because, while adorable, they had no use on the farm.  Then what did that damned little monkey do?  He discovered a use for them; eating poison ivy.  

     I had been betrayed by one of my favorite childhood literary characters.  My argument was toast; when Curious freakin' George is against you and your kids immediately start backing him up with "SEE mom"s, you pretty much don't have a leg to stand on anymore; I was going to have to consider this goat thing.