When I was a child, my parents, younger brother and I lived for a time on a farm far back in the woods. Trees and bushes and thickets surrounded our house and barn. This is the same place that had the long driveway which was a good race track for a black horse and me. Anyway, my dad got the idea that the way to clear our land of some of the undergrowth was a goat. He was going under the assumption that a goat will eat most anything.
One day before leaving for town Dad gave me instructions to move the goat from the place where it was grazing to a new spot of overgrown land so it could get on with its mowing duties.
I don’t believe the goat fully understood my intention because when he felt the rope go slack as I untied it from the tree, his one thought was Freedom! His yellow eyes glinted and he took off cross country. Instead of leading him, that goat led me on a wild chase. He shot through sumac thickets, dragging me with him. He bounded over blackberry bushes whose thorny arms reached out to snag me. The goat bolted and I stumbled, my hands clamped around the rope. I hung on only because I was too stubborn to let go. Besides, I could imagine the look on Dad’s face when he heard that his goat ran away from home. The belligerent billy had his eye on sailing over the fence and disappearing down the road when finally I was able to wrap the rope around another tree and secure it in a knot. The wild flight stopped. The goat calmly went back to munching while I, sweating, panting, scratched and bleeding, lurched back to the house. I had won!
I think baby goats are cute and lovable but when they come of age, I want nothing to do with them. At best they are unpredictable and at their worse, downright mean!
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