The things I do in the course of my job at High Plains Journal--they don't teach you this stuff in any college course, let me tell you.

The innocent-looking invitation came about mid-July from the offices of the Kansas State Fair. "Come participate in the 2005 Celebrity Goat Milking Contest" the flyer read. Right, where can I sign right up, folks?

Frankly I don't think that I qualify as a celebrity, but evidently my work here at HPJ has come to the attention of very important people in management. Or, rather, they thought that a team from an agricultural paper would be a shoo-in to win. At any rate, after much discussion (and a straw ballot in which the losers were picked for the team), the Editorial Department decided to enter.

Honestly, I was in it for a free trip to the fair and a day away from my desk. The potential for glory was just a side benefit.

So, anyway, a three-person team of Larry Dreiling, Kylene Orebaugh and myself traipsed to the Kansas State Fair to try our hands at milking a goat for fame and fortune. Of the three, Larry had the most experience, himself participating in the contest when it featured dairy cattle. Kylene and I know nothing about milk goats. She's a barrel racer and horse afficianado and I grew up around cattle and a small flock of 4-H ewes. The nearest I've come to a dairy goat would be my former life as a 4-H member and my sheep projects. Dairy goats were foreign livestock to say the very least.

Even though Kylene and I were inexperienced, we were at least as enthusiastic as we could be about the prospect of seemingly inappropriately touching a strange goat. I don't think Emily Post has a section devoted to etiquette when milking an anonymous goat. I mean, surely we should have had some formal introduction to the goat, maybe learn each other's names, favorite meals and hobbies, before diving right into this task, right?

At least the rules were simple. Each team got to pick out their prospective nanny goat from a lineup. Then, each team member had 20 seconds to milk the goat. The team with the most milk out of each heat advanced to the finals. The teams ran the gamut of state "celebrities" from anchors on two Wichita television stations, to local newspaper and radio folks, and from state fair board members to Kansas Highway Patrolmen.

Our team's luck ran dry the moment we picked out our nanny from the lineup. You'd think a team of farm and ranch communicators would have the best shot at judging a full goat from a dry one, wouldn't you? No such luck. Instead we, in all of our vast experience, chose a dry one. At least, that's the story I'm spinning. Other people would say that our milking technique was lacking and therefore we lost. One of my friends told me we should clarify next time that we'd like a DAIRY goat and not a MEAT goat. Good advice, but where was he when I needed it?

Three lousy ounces was all our nanny gave. Maybe we were too polite in trying to milk the old girl. I felt like apologizing to the goat for any pain and mental anguish we caused. Honestly, I expect a lawsuit any day now from the goat's owners citing "detrimental suffering" on the part of the goat. I know I'm traumatized.

The winning team, for the umpteenth year in a row, was from the Kansas Highway Patrol. Personally, I think they might have had an unfair advantage. Afterall, two of the team members were in full uniform with guns strapped in their holsters, and I think they intimidated the goats into giving milk. Well, you would too if a six-foot-seven-inch, 275-pound patrolman with a gun was milking you.

At any rate, while I didn't expect the experience to be a big hoot-nanny, it did turn out to be kind of fun. We didn't walk away with the Golden Goat Award, but we did come out of the whole thing with nifty blue participation ribbons.

Next year, though, we're coming home with that trophy. Even if I have to risk the wrath of highway patrolmen and the nerves of an anonymous nanny goat to get it.

Jennifer Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com.