Goated

To be honest, this is not a story I tell proudly…

I grew up on a secluded two acre paradise about 1/4 mile from the center of a village. Also within smelling distance was a sizable herd of goats, and in spring, if memory serves me, those goats were highly odoriferous. Perhaps love was in the air.

One afternoon, the biggest billy-goat I’d ever seen – although I confess to not having seen any others at close range at my tender age of 9 – appeared in our front yard. My sister and I and a friend were playing just outside the garage. Said goat was white, though he undoubtedly had a black heart or maybe a heart beating with passion, his horns were long, and he chased us into the garage, where we were able to climb to the attic for safety while screaming, “DUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!”   (“Duch” was what we called my mom, but that’s yet another story). Duch apparently didn’t hear us, and after some time, Mr. A. Goat left.

The scene repeated on the next day, this time sending us up onto our screened porch just in time. I can still see that damned goat standing with hind legs on the front steps and front feet up on the screen of the door.

My mother, who was no sissy, tried to chase him, but the score was very quickly Goat – 1, Duch – 0. She made some phone calls, and in about 15 minutes a man showed up, grabbed the amorous goat by one horn, and led him away. I presume some fence mending was also done that day, or perhaps a goat pilaf was eaten, for that was the last time a billy got my goat.

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