In which I become a tattoo artist.

Once upon my lengthy list of things that I have been absolutely dreading and procrastinating about has been TATTOO GOAT BABIES. First, my excuse was that I didn’t have tattoo pliers, but the tattoo pliers have been sitting in my laundry room for a couple months and the babies still lacked their tattoos. I awoke this morning with the determination that by the end of the day I would know more about tattooing goats than I knew at the moment, and the babies would have tattoos or something very like them on their floppy ears.

Yes, I am the woman who was unable to pierce her five year old daughter’s ear resulting Daddy being the one to punch the hole. This was rather ironic as he was less than ecstatic  about the prospect anyway. However, a man with four daughters picks his battles carefully.

With that background of my former squeamishness, you can possibly imagine my thrill at needing to punch this baby through some floppy goat ears.

First you clean their ears.

Then you ink them and punch them, or punch them and ink them, depending on whose directions you are reading. I did some both ways, we shall see if it makes a difference.

Your herd identification goes in the right ear, and the animal’s identification goes in the left ear. I hope it all came out right side up. I put it forward from the direction you’d be reading it if you flipped the ear up to read it standing in front of the goat.

They fussed about the initial piercing, then went back to happily munching their grain, making all my dread and panic attacks completely and totally wasted. I am not at all confident that this project went well, because it went too easily. (Note to self, new thing to worry about.) Everyone talks about how messy tattooing is, I assumed they meant blood and guts, but I think they meant the icky, sticky, get everywhere, cling to everything ink.

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