One wandered near Mom and Dad's daylight basement, baaah-ing in apparently searching terms: Where are my goat friends? He then got stubborn and wouldn't leave. I then went out and tried leading him; he seemed fine with following me. (I was humming Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side" of all things. The "do-de-do-de-do" part.) We went along the fence line on the back end of the property; no sign of a way through back to where the goats usually graze.
Dad drove over to the house where the goats' owners live, found they weren't home, and left a note. In the meantime-in-between-time, Mom and I sat outside and watched the goat. Strangely Zen moment. We went back in when Dad got back to let us know he hadn't found the owners yet. By the time the owners returned and called us, hatching a plan to retrieve the goat, we looked back outside. No goat. Too late to search for it, too, as it was getting dark. Still no goat-sign this morning when I went out to get the paper.
Don't know if he found a way back through the fence, or if he's been wandering around the neighborhood since last night.
They make sad children's books out of dilemmas like this, don't they?