Every August herds of goats descend on Tilden Park and eat everything organic. They’re cheaper than landscapers, and what they devour is turned into fertilizer. They move from one corral to another, surrounded by electrified fences, devouring all vegetation either on the ground or above their heads when they stand on their hind legs. The hillsides are denuded in a couple of weeks, and the goats are then herded into trailers and driven to their next meal, another park, another hillside. On a Friday morning walk Ted and I were privileged to watch the roundup of the last of the herd, courtesy of two men with sticks, one sheepdog, and a labrador.
Sheepdog waits for the last of the herd to finish dessert.
Don’t mind me. I’m just out for a walk, caught in a goat stampede.
Both the dog and the silhouetted man in the back are guiding the goats to a field to the left where a makeshift pen has been constructed. Unseen is the labrador, standing in the road preventing the goats from continuing down the street.
Behind the goats the two men have erected a temporary electrical fence. A truck will drive up, and goats will be herded down the pen, through the chute, and into a waiting trailer.
This herd is one of about six that spent late July and early August enjoying what winter rains brought.