I have a namesake. Sure, I always thought it would be in the form of a red-haired freckled girl to whom I would pass on the middle name Elizabeth. Instead, I have a goat.

Named Clark.

Technically, I don’t have a goat. But the ranch where I’m living has a new kid named Clark. Pet name Clarky. Double pet name Clarky Clark. My namesake is technically a redhead — if goats are even called that — and a boy, with a little white in his coat mixed in for fun. Clark has an all-white brother, Mark, lovingly referred to as Marky. As in Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch.

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Some may need to Google that.

We’re thinking of starting a Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch tribute band with the goats. Call it Neeaahh Kids on the Block. I’ve already hired a choreographer.

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The goat jokes are endless lately.

Goat jokes aren’t necessarily good jokes. But they are goat-specific so they bring some cheer to the air. Before this month, I hadn’t had too much experience palling around with goats. I grew up in a rural part of Indiana, but not on a farm. Sure, I had fed random goats their fair share of feed for 25 cents a handful at petting zoos over the years. These days I’m spending some quality time with the goats and I’m learning a bit about how they operate.

To be honest with you, I think goats are on to something.

Clarky and Marky are about three months old so they are pretty new to the world around them. They are curious and like to play and butt heads while they balance on top of the big rock in the yard. Yes, that’s as cute as it sounds. There should probably be a TV show about it.

Or at least a web series.

One no-brainer for goats is eating. They eat like it’s their job. I guess technically it is their job to eat continuously if they are being raised to, well, eat. I have a hard time imagining eating Clarky and Marky, although goat meat is quite normal to eat all around the world.

I think I’ll be good for a while.

I haven’t seen the goats eat everything in sight, like old tin cans of beans or plastic buckets of sidewalk chalk. They actually are pretty good at sticking to their new diet of grass, weeds, and feed and haven’t eaten anything that normally is recycled.

They must have superhero-strength stomachs.

The goats don’t seem to be having any trouble with all that eating. There was a little bloating when they were first brought to the Random Ranch as they adjusted but all is well now. I just patted Clarky on the head between his baby horns and told him I could relate.

Boys can bloat, too.

I mostly like how friendly goats are. They also seem happy to greet me when they see me, although some of their actions may be confused with the notion I could have food in my pockets. They always have a goat-like hello, especially Clarky.

Often while he has his mouth full of grass.

They always see us coming, too, because they have somewhere in the scope of 10 times the binocular vision compared to what a human can see. Goats have some crazy peripheral vision that can almost look like they’re robots. First zombies. Now robot goats.

Anything is possible.

The goats are definitely non-robotic. They are kind of like a couple of new dogs that don’t bark or play fetch. But I suppose they could be like a best friend, but maybe with less inclination to share a bed. No goats in the house is an actual rule here.

Mind you I had to be reminded of that.

Clarky and Marky do like to chase each other, and sometimes humans if they are feeling like some adventure. They wag their tails when they’re happy and excited. Plus they like to nap.

Goat siestas are crucial.

I think goats might just be my kind of people, or animal. Same difference sometimes. Especially when they’re named after me.

Clark Elizabeth has a nice ring to it.

— April E. Clark is living the #goatlife. She can be reached at aprilelizabethclark@gmail.com.