So I’d been having and issue with this goat.
You can read about the goat stalking me while I worked here, if you’re interested. I’ll wait.. .
I had sent an email off to the management of the company I work for, with a brief summary of the event. Being in San Diego, rather than the rural farm country I live in, the didn’t believe me. So I was asked for a picture.
After another hour and a half of the goat circling my house like a demented four-legged shark, I had another break, so I grabbed my cell phone and went window to window. Nothing. Was he gone?
I cautiously stepped out onto the ramp, looking around. Nothing. Paranoid crouch to see if it was hiding under the porch, waiting to spring at me in a frenzy of hooves and horns.
Nope, not there either.
So I slowly made my way around the corner of the house. Ah. He’d found the patch of herbs by the pines. *Click*
Apparently, goats have good ears. That one tiny click of the camera made him spring around and begin his charge in one very rapid movement.
And of course I turned around and ran for the house.
The goat resumed his circuits around the house, still pausing outside my office window on every pass to bleat outside my window.
I tried calling animal control, but got no help. I’ve been told since that the position was actually vacant back then.
Next, I tried the county sheriff to see if they had any suggestions.
Just so that you know, even if you are rural, if you call the sheriff about a goat, they will think you are making a prank call.
They don’t take prank calls lightly, even if you don’t use the emergency number. You’ll be read the riot act before you even have a chance to explain.
And once you do explain, they will laugh at you. And tell you to call the town selectman.
So I did.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well, I’d like some help getting rid of the goat.”
“Is it rabid?”
“Rabid? I don’t know. I have no idea how a goat would behave if it was rabid.”
“If it’s rabid I can shoot it.”
“Shoot it? I don’t want you to shoot it. I just want you to get it off my property.”
“Well, I’m working right now. I’ll get someone to come out and take a look.”
In the meantime my narcoleptic husband woke up and brought the kiddo downstairs.
“Did you say something about a goat?”
I ran through the day quickly, and he went outside to take a look while Quinn watched, delighted, from the window.
And of course he got charged too. New York made his way back into the house, quicker than I had.
“That thing is huge! When you said I goat, I thought you meant, goat. Like small, normal, goat-sized goat. That’s not a goat. That’s Beezlebub!”
He washed his hands of it and went to the store. While he was gone, a car pulled up and three men got out.
I went to the door to learn that the selectman had called in locals to try the catch.
A few advances and rapid retreats later, they decided the goat was too aggressive to simply walk up to. They rallied on the porch to regroup. Their solution was to toss a blanket over it.
I fetched an old blanket and watched the absurdity begin. Around and around the house they went, the men chasing the goat, then the goat chasing the men. There were a few falls, and there was a lot of swearing.
It was so Benny Hill that all I could do was stand on the porch and laugh, humming this:
And because it had to get weirder, during the merry chase around and around the house, a red sports car screeched to a halt on the road in front of my house.
“What the hell are you doing to my goat?”
I stepped out onto the ramp.
“That’s your goat?”
“Yes it’s my goat. Why the hell are they chasing it with a goddamn blanket? Why didn’t you just make him a peanut butter sandwich?”
“A peanut butter sandwich?”
Do goats like peanut butter?
The man put the car in park and slid half out to stand on one leg with a whistle. And then he shook what did indeed appear to be a peanut butter sandwich at the circus.
The goat veered off and raced straight to the sports car. The man slid back into the car, the arm with the peanut butter sandwich dangling out the window. The goat made a reach for the sandwich and the car moved forward a few feet.
They made slow carrot-and-stick progress down the road to turn down the dirt road bisecting our property.
We all watched, a bit dumbfounded, until they rounded the curve.
“Well, that took care of it.” One of the locals shrugged and handed me my blanket. They bundled into the car and drove off.
I was still standing in the driveway, holding the blanket and blinking stupidly when my husband drove up.
“What are you doing with that blanket?”
I looked down and shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Where’s the goat?”
He wasn’t interested in the where or how. “Good. I want to barbecue.”
Faintly, from the distance, we could hear the bleat of the goat as we opened the garage and pulled out the barbecue.
But it was gone. We were safe.
- The Goat Episode, in 3 Parts: part 1 (rantravewrite.com)