"When is a goat not a goat?" . . . When she's Maggie.
Maggie didn't know she was a goat. When she joined our family of twenty-five bantam chickens, two rabbits, two cats, three dogs, and numerous summer-time children, she was no bigger than our cocker spaniel, Chrissie. But it was Skipper, our big malamute husky, that she adopted as her mother--much to his annoyance. He tried growling, nipping at her, and hiding from her, but nothing would dissuade her. She followed him everywhere. After about the first week Skipper gave up trying to get rid of Maggie, resigning himself to having a shadow. Even at night, instead of sleeping in the cozy, hay-bedded stall we had provided for her, she opted for the hard ground, curled up close to Skipper.
"Watch out you guys. Here comes Maggie." The visiting children, splashing in the lake, squealed with mock terror as they swam with all their might to get to the raft, out of the way of Maggie's sharp hoofs, as she followed the swimmers into the lake. Even skipper had learned to avoid Maggie by scrambling onto the raft, out of her reach, before she could use him for a raft.
"But goats don't like water," said our neighbor one day, when we told her about Maggie and her lake escapades.
"But dogs do," I told our neighbor. "Nobody has informed her that she isn't a dog. Say! I'll tell you what. We're having a picnic tonight down at the beach at our place. Why don't you come? See for yourself, Maggie in action."
“What can we contribute?” asked the neighbour.
I thought for a moment. Suppressing a giggle struggling to escape, I replied, “Why don't you bring along some marshmallows? We'll have a marshmallow roast."
As I walked to the car I let my giggle out. Were we ever in for some entertainment tonight! Wait until our neighbor sees what the combination of marshmallows, Maggie--and moisture--does!
Grace and her mother, whom everyone called, "Granny" arrived at six o'clock. They deposited their contribution onto the picnic table and settled themselves on beach chairs. We had purposely held off our evening swim until after our guests arrived. My husband and the visiting boys plunged into the lake, Skipper right behind them. I stayed on shore with the visitors.
Maggie eyed the guests, put her front hoofs onto the table to examine what they had brought, then darted after the swimmers. The "marathon" had begun. Who would get to the raft first, the panicky swimmers--or Maggie? You guessed it. A tie. No kidding! Could that goat ever swim!
"Well! If that don't beat all!" gasped Grace. "In all my years livin' and workin' on a farm with animals, I ain't never seen a goat swim just for pleasure."
"You ain't seen nuthin' yet!" I kidded, tossing a stick into the bonfire. "Wait 'til she gets OUT of the water."
Hardly had the words left my mouth when pandemonium broke loose! I turned my head just in time to see Maggie jump onto the picnic table, shaking water over everything in sight. She grabbed at the marshmallows, Granny grasping them at the same time. With a jerk of her head, Maggie wrenched the bag from Granny's hand and started off down the beach.
Her agility belying her eighty-plus years, Granny scrambled from her chair, grabbed a double-pronged wiener stick, and tore after the goat. Maggie skipped just ahead of her, shaking the bag of marshmallows and turning to see if her pursuer was still behind her.
"You come back here with them there marshmallows you she-devil, you, or it won't be jist marshmallows we'll be roasting t’night, it’ll be GOAT,” she screeched.
By this time the group was all assembled around the campfire, rubbing themselves with towels, and doubling over with laughter as they watched the performance of the goat and the granny. Who would win this mad-dash? Little Granny? Or Kid Maggie?
You guessed it!...Maggie arrived back at the campfire none the worse for the frisk, shook the contents of the bag onto the ground, and before the winded Granny had arrived on the scene, had consumed all the marshmallows.
No kidding! 
A true story of our adventures in the '60's
See also: Who's Kidding?