Got My Goat

Uh-oh, my sister Jennifer and I are out running errands again, but so far the day has gone without incident. We’re headed home; we’re almost there, but then I see the goat. He’s standing right at the edge of a major and busy road, just at the curve in the street near a closed-down vegetable stand. Two Hispanic gentlemen are gazing under the hood of an old car parked at the stand, seemingly unaware of the goat. We pull in.

“Excuse me, is that your goat?” I ask, pointing to the animal that now has one hoof on the road.

“Yes, Si,” is the answer.

“Well he’s going to get hit by a car,” my sister says. An auto whizzes by, barely missing the goat.

“Oh, he’s never been hit before,” one man assures us. Well that certainly is sound reasoning.

At our insistence, the older man saunters toward the goat and the younger man yells, “Billy! Billy!” at the wandering animal. (A more unique name for a goat I’ve never heard.)

“Does he come when you call?” my sister asks, wincing at another near miss.

“No not really,” the young man answers. “He loves potato chips. That goat loves potato chips. He’ll eat potato chips all day and he keeps our grass cut. We never have to mow the grass, but he loves potato chips.”

Finally, the older man lifts the goat and places him on the safer side of the gate. We say our adieus, or in this case, adios, and leave.

“Well, if nothing else we saved Billy the goat today,” I observe. “Damn it! Now I’m craving potato chips.”