We never set out to be goat farmers, never really. Â They were more or less dropped at our feet, or on our land, through a series of negotiations and musical-goat-swapping with neighbors up the hill.
We’ve been rotationally grazing them through a tangle of net fencing, and recently, with the garden on the wane and new pasture going with it, have been letting them free range, for the most part.  First they cut back our perennials, then they did a great job pulling the carrots, whose fruits they left to dry uprooted and detached from the greens they preferred.  Then they wandered inside the shop, in search of their anise treats and other sundries.  But they abused the privilege when nipping my sunflowers, and are now banished back to their pen.
Looking outside to find wandering, munching goats hanging out in my front garden seemed odd, but is, in fact, not too different from looking out the window of my NYC apartment.  The only difference is that here I wrestle one onto a bench and spend the morning squeezing her tits, a service that’d come with a cost in the city.