Thursday, December 3, 2009
My mother, the goat, my brother, and me
I blame my mother;she blames my brother, he blames the goat. For my twelfth birthday, I asked my mother for a computer. I would have settled for a typewriter. My mother, being my mother, bought me a nanny goat at a yard sale. Yes, a goat at a yard sale. It was a helluva deal, they threw the chain in for free.
Goats, by definition, are nasty animals. They eat anything, knock over garbage, climb on the cars and they are hell to leash break. This brown nanny goat was particularly destructive. She killed my Dad's two prize peach trees, destroyed our wooden door, and the paint job on a classic Camero. I am pretty sure the neighbors had a shoot on sight order out on her. I don't blame them.
After the nanny goat demolished the car, my mother decided that the animal should probably be in a fenced area. A free roaming goat seem to attract trouble for some reason. I can't figure out why. Realizing that I'm dangerous with a hammer, my mother put my brother in charge of stringing barb-wire to keep the goat contained and I was sent to the store for milk.
Thinking back, I should have felt the impending doom. I'm walking home on the trail from the store, gallon of milk in hand. Since the trail heads downhill, I'm picking up speed at an alarming pace. Just as my house comes into view, I realize my brother has strung one roll of wire at ankle level at the bottom of the trail and, as usual, wandered off. I start windmilling my arms, trying to slow down but there is no hope of stopping now.
I trip over the wire, the milk jug flies high into the air. As I collide with the ground, I manage to kick the goat. The goat screams and runs. Only she is chained to a tree and she is yanked off her feet. The milk jug hits the ground like a bomb. Milk sprays everywhere, the goat screams again, and I am dripping wet.
Our spotted mix breed terrier runs off the back porch and starts licking up the milk. The enraged goat attacks the dog. The goat has horns; the dog is losing. I try to pull the dog away and get bit. I have a sprained ankle, a rabidly mad goat, a squirming dog, and I'm sitting in a milk pond with a bleeding hand.
I hear the back door open, I turn, expecting sympathy, and my mother says, "I hope you're going to clean up this mess. I'm not the maid."
I still blame my mother. She bought the darn goat. All I wanted was a typewriter.