Ten days ago, Bill Havengar brought his goats down to Bear Valley from his ranch so they could graze near the creek. About 400 animals, if you include the kids — and who does not want to include the kids? The kids are the only reason the words “goat” and “cute” can be used in the same sentence. The kids reduce adults to baby talk. The jaunty little fellows are happy to indulge this cooing and petting, particularly when accompanied by food. They’re not picky. A weed, willow leaves. Apples, oranges, carrots? Don’t mind if I do.
This the seventh year Havengar has hauled in the goats from Prospect Valley as weed control for Denver’s natural resources division. Before that, he was in construction. He’s never looked back. Now, Havengar has goats Freddy and Alvin, who used to be called Sandy, and Billy, who is sometimes called Mr. Ed, and Sweet Pea, who is always Sweet Pea and who is, at this moment, nuzzling Havengar’s shirt.
“These guys have personality as opposed to sheep,” he says.
Sheep don’t have personality? I ask.
“Not the ones I’ve been around,” he says, grinning.
Havengar brought in the goats and the trailer for the ever-present goat herders — Brent, Scott and Travis — and set up along the bike path just below Bear Valley Country Club in southwest Denver. The goats have been eating their way east. Goats work quickly, stripping, nibbling, chewing, pooping, bleating, frolicking, head-butting, trotting up to sniff the hand of the newest visitor.
They’re sociable creatures. Just like their human visitors. It was only a matter of time before the goats became a neighborhood sensation.
People visit the goats all day, but in the evenings, after work, when the temperature has cooled, visitors congregate around the pen. They lean against the fence, forearms resting on the rail, and watch the goats, sharing observations.
“They’re not all girls, are they?” “No.” “Who’s Mr. Ed?” “You’ll know him when you see him.” “He’s the biggest male.” “He’s the one that has the most hair.” “No, that’s Elvis.” “Look at that,” a woman says, and we watch a doe bleat and her kid respond, the two calling to each other until reunited and, bam, the kid shoves his mouth into her udder. “Ow. They’re not gentle, are they?” “The mom could be way over there and the babies will come charging.” “Isn’t that cute?”
“We had 12 sets of triplets this year, which is the most we’ve ever had.” That’s Brent Dennis, one of the herders. He has an easy way about him, patient with the many questions. “Did you know goats don’t have any top teeth?”
“My aunt kept telling me to bring the kids to see the goats. Everyone over there has been talking about this for days.”
“I can’t believe how many people have been here,” Dennis says.
“Hundreds,” someone says.
The city plans to use the goats as the first step in ridding exotic grasses — along here, the problem is smooth brome — and replacing them with native species. People seem pleased with the immediate results.
“I called the city 52 times to complain about the weeds here,” a woman named Barbara announces to Havengar on Friday morning at the pen. “We had homeless sleeping in them. Now, the homeowners’ associations and I have called 34 times — I even called the mayor — to tell them how great this is. This is the best this has looked in 15 years. This was so much more than getting grass cut down.”
Barbara’s talking about safety. But she’s right: This has been about much more. “It’s a community affair,” a woman tells me Thursday night. “An adventure right in the middle of the city,” says another.
Some people have been out here every evening, and it doesn’t take long to understand why. It’s relaxing in a way life in the city rarely is, providing a moment outside oneself, a shared experience requiring nothing, not even conversation.
Still, conversation comes easy, quiet voices rising and falling in a lulling rhythm of their own. A child laughs, “I’ve never had a goat nibble my hand, dude!” A couple marvels at 225-pound Billy, who on Friday morning leads a breakout, which consists of the herd pushing down the fence, moving urgently en masse 20 yards and then stopping. Fresh weeds!
Early next week, Havengar will move the goats from this patch just south of Kennedy High School to another near Fort Logan National Cemetery. No word on how many humans plan to follow.
Tina Griego writes Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Reach her at 303-954-2699 or tgriego@denverpost.com.
