Capra aegagrus hircus (the Goat)

The Woods Part IV

2006-04-04T12:03:00.000-07:00

We been here in the Fold for 'bout six weeks nows. We run around so much, Senator Jim -- the deer who runs things 'round here -- said me and Meredith might have some deer blood in our family hair'tidge.

Tell ya the truth, there's been lots a times lately when I don't wanna leave. We got plenty of good grass and tree bark to chew on, and now and then I come 'cross a mess of garbage to eat -- thank God for foodgiven' slobs! At night we sleep in the Fold, all curled up with each other, hidden and protected by the woods. It feels good to wake up in the middle of the night and here the other deer all sleepin' safe and sound.

But I know Chloe's waitin' for me, so we gotta move on now. Sen. Jim says it's time, too, since the spring's comin' on and them bucks are gettin' randy. He says some of 'em been lookin' at Meredith with "unpure thoughts."

So we're taking off this morning, bright and early. Sen. Jim gave me some good directions, and said if we follow the creeks, we're sure to get out by the highway eventually. But I'm still a litt'l scairty. Meredith and me seem awfully small compared to the other things out there...cars and people and them things that eat grass.

Here comes Sen. Jim to say goodbye, and the whole herd's with him! Lordy, ain't that a tear running down this old goat's beard?

The Woods, Part III

2006-02-19T17:18:00.000-08:00

“Don’t drink the water,” the deer told us, but after the fire, Meredith and me had drank plenty of the creek water already. Hell, we was thirsty, and how was we supposed to know the water had something called fecal bacteria in every other tongueful?

“You’re lucky you stumbled across this park,” the deer said. He was taller than us, with a decent rack of horns that I kept thinking would get caught in the foliage, but somehow never did. I could tell Meredith had a crush on him, the way her nose got all moist, but he was way out of her league.

“There’s this new concept called ‘forested urbanism,’” he explained, “which means these parks are connected all through the city. If you know how everything’s laid out, you can go just about anywhere without leaving the woods.”

“Even out by the highway?” I asked, ‘cause that’s where the old lady lives.

“Absolutely.”

I liked the way the deer talked. He was a smart ol’ boy, but nice, too. He stopped every few feet to let us catch up. Us goats ain’t used to clopping over dead trees and such. We’re used to yards.

After about an hour of walking, I was completely turned around. It was dead dark inside the forest, and I wasn’t even sure what time of day it was. All I knew was how tired I was, and I knew Meredith was, too.

I was about to open my trap and ask for a stop, when the deer said, “We’re here.”

“Where?” Meredith says.

Our guide stepped aside, and let us pass through a tight opening in the brush. Coming out the other side, I blinked. In a large clearing, standing in the moonlight, hundreds of deer stood in a circle. They was all looking at us.

Near the middle, the biggest deer I ever seen came forward. He said, "Welcome to the Fold."

The Woods, Part II

2006-01-31T19:04:00.000-08:00

Chloe lives out by the highway, in the backyard of the guy who once beat me with a fan belt. God, that seems like a long time ago, don’t it? Anyway, I never really knew where the highway was, and now I gotta try finding my way back. Laws, that ain’t gonna be easy.

The groundhog sure as hell wasn’t much help. He said he never crosses the divider, which is a narrow strip of blacktop with a dotted line running down the middle. Every now and then you see a foodgiver joggin’ along, or one of them two-wheeled contraptions that whiz right by.

“You’s in a park,” the groundhog says to me and Meredith. He was a chubby little bastard, and his whiskers held tiny drops of dew that he’d picked up from sniffing the morning grass. “All sorts of ‘em in the city. They wrap all ‘round, ever which way, but I never leave my little patch ‘ere.”

We moved along, careful to cross the exercise path when no foodgivers were in sight. I was hoping to find a stream; we were both thirsty and needed a quick shower. My plan was to follow the water till it reached a river, which might take us out of the city.

Then I met the deer…and everything changed.

Everything.

The Woods, Part I

2006-01-20T18:01:00.000-08:00

I can't tell you how frustrating it is to walk through the woods with a goat. Meredith stops to smell any unusual scent that makes it up her moist, pretty little nose, which happens every, oh, two seconds. Centipede on a leaf? Gotta check it out. Spider web? Gotta check it out. Rusted beer can? You get the point.

Can you imagine what I've had to put up with?

Sure, I'm a goat, too; but I'm also an exception, thanks to my medical experimentation shots. I'm smart enough to know that the only way we're going to make it out of these woods alive is by moving along. Sooner or later, the humans are going to find us here. And make no mistake, they are looking.

See, we're tainted, Meredith and I -- two domestic animals with untested chemicals running through their bodies. The scientists will chase us down and...well, we need to keep moving.

And I know where, too...

Back to Chloe. Back to my home.

Inferno, Part II

2006-01-10T12:50:00.000-08:00

Ba-aa! Ba-aa!

Meredith's bleeting cry for help pulled me forward, filling my erect ears with her pain and fear. I dropped and rolled, a la, Dick Van Dyke, under the black, acrid smoke, heading toward the noise.

The sprinklers rained overhead and I used them to my advantage, hopping from one wet oasis to another.

Ba-aaaaa...

There! Backed into a corner, her black hooves skittered on the water slickened floor. I dashed past an exploding rack of test tubes, feeling the flaming liquid singe my fur. "Bite my tail!" I shouted, lifting it toward her mouth. She clamped down hard, making me grimace, and I bolted toward the loading dock with her in tow.

We tasted fresh air, and there was a temptation to flee into the open. But I held Meredith back, analyzing the situation. The rest of the animals were running wild to our left, being rounded up by animal control.

Thump! Thump! Tranquilizer darts being shot in the distance, missing.

"See those woods?" I said, pointing to a line of scrub oak a hundred yards away, on the other side of the parking lot. "We're going to run for it. Go!"

We sprinted across the asphalt, through the flashing red lights of the firetrucks and the flickering orange light of the fire behind us.

"Run, Meredith...run!"

And then we were in the forest, cloaked in the hidden glory of the dark animal world, safe...for now.

Inferno, Part I

2005-12-30T15:05:00.000-08:00

The animals sensed the attack long before it materialized, and so the flash-bang explosion and shouting voices just after 2 a.m. came as no real surprise. A security guard ran by my stall, shouting into his portable radio.

"We've had a breach! A breach!" he screamed. "Get your ass down here now!"

ALF fighters flooded into the building, smashing computers and torching the paper files. They ripped open the loading gates and unlocked the pens. The pigs ran first, squealing as they tore down the ramp into the ashphalt parking lot. Then came the chimps and the dogs and the groundhogs.

I left calmly, with my horns held high, ignoring the helter-skelter confusion behind me. But in the grass outside, with sirens bleating in the distance, I realized somebody was missing. Where was Meredith?

"Hellllllp!" I heard from over my right haunch. "Helllllp!"

She was disoriented in the smoke. The fire was spreading from the offices to the stalls, and the feed was catching. If the smoke didn't get her, the heat soon would. I had to do something.

And so I, Patrick Ryan Fitzgerald III, dashed up the ramp...and into the flames.

Born to run

2005-12-27T19:21:00.000-08:00

Meredith is worried. Though you couldn’t call her smart by any objective standard, she is an animal. She does have certain instincts.

She knows that ALF is coming…probably tonight.

I’ve tried to soothe her, make her feel better. I’ve even promised to take care of her when the inevitable happens. No matter what I say, though, she continues to urinate uncontrollably, then roll in it. Since I’ve already offered her a haunch to cry on, I’m in a rather disgusting predicament, wouldn't you say?

Oh, well…things are going to get worse before they get better. What Meredith and the others don’t understand is that once the lab is burned to the ground and we’re set free, we have to keep running. If the researchers catch us afterward, they’ll have no choice but to put us asleep. Why? Because by leaving the controlled laboratory environment, the data inside of us will become spoiled. There will be no reason to keep us alive.

Whilst setting us free, ALF will be dooming us.

So our only option will be to run. And keep on running.

The Spy Who Fed Me

2005-12-18T18:43:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well…isn’t this an interesting development?

This morning, the stall cleaning boy was removing my dung, singing his usual nonsense -- “Or-ae a-dor-ae, don’t pee on the floor-ae, use the toilet bowl-ae, that’s what it’s for-ae” – when his phone rang.

“This is Strawburner,” he said into the phone. “Affirmative. All plans are a go.”

It seems our little simpleton isn’t quite so simple. Frankly, I suspected ALF had an agent on the inside. Things were all just a bit too tidy.

It’s not yet known when the attack will come, but I’m predicting Thursday night. According to my ad hoc ephemeredes observations, a 2 a.m. moonrise, coupled with about 55 percent available moonlight, should bode well for the attack.

In the meantime, I can only wait. And plan…

Something in the air

2005-12-12T19:13:00.000-08:00

“Happy Holidays,” my ass.

You don’t hear me saying, “Happy Recreational Aquatic Removal Day,” do you? Hell no, it’s “Happy Pool Day,” by God, as it should be. (Though Pool Day’s what got me into this jam in the first place.)

If these bleeding-heart foodgivers cared half as much about security as they do about being politically correct, we wouldn’t be in half the trouble we’re in. And believe me, we are in trouble.

Meredith said she can smell something in the air. Assuming she means more than the disgusting odor of dung and urine that clings to her stall like Saran Wrap, I think she’s right.

ALF is coming soon.

What the hell, why should I care? I’m smarter than all of them put together. Besides, according to the ALF leaflets, which occassionally blow into my stall through the ventilation ducts, the worst these morons will do is free me.

Come to think of it, that would make a Happy Holiday, wouldn’t it?

L'Shanah Tovah!

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose...

2005-12-05T06:54:00.000-08:00

Could somebody please explain to me why the foodgivers are so terrified of ALF? The Animal Liberation Front is nothing more than a misfit collection of tofu-chewing eggheads who couldn't sneak into a movie theatre, let alone a well-secured research laboratory.

Personally, I'd be ashamed to be "liberated" by the likes of them.

The graffiti has gotten worse over the last week (there was another spray-paint attack last night), but that's no reason to freak out. If the FGs would put me in charge of security, I'd put a stop to this nonsense right away. All we need is a double-helix pattern of motion-activated security cameras, integrated with high-powered lights and double-stranded razor wire.

I tried to spell it out for them in my hay pile, but, as usual, the message was lost on the simpleton cleaning boy. Meredith and the other animals are terrified of ALF, but I've made the necessary preparations...

Who's the boss?

2005-12-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this guy comes down from the lab today, wants to look inside my stall. I say fine, why not? After all, he is a foodgiver…regardless of how dense he is (and he is).

He comes in, takes one look at the floor, and says, “Holy shit! Who did this?”

Pretty soon, his research partner comes running. “Damn…” he whistles, seeing the same thing.

What’s the big deal? So I organized my feed straw into stacks of two-row hulless, semi-dwarf hulled, barley landraces and wheat. So what? Just because I like my food orderly doesn’t make me a neat freak.

Just to show ‘em who’s the boss, I take a gigantic chunk out of the fat one’s pants leg. Swallow it whole, straight down the belly hatch.

“These are brand-new Dockers!” he screams, like that makes him a big spender, right?

Listen, I don’t care if they were new or not. They’ll be spreading them on roses by the time I’m done with ‘em.

ALF?

2005-11-28T18:54:00.000-08:00

That dumby-ass stall cleaning boy who sings "Or-ae a dor-ae..." took me outside today (like I need his help gettin' through a straight chute into a corral), where I saw the strangest sight. Scrawled on the outside of the laboratory, in gigantic red letters, were six words: "ALF was here. ALF is coming."

Some of the animals think ALF is an animal god, one who'll come to free us from our laboratory cells. Yeah, right! As if these furry freaks could do better in the outside world. When I think of how I used to be -- a braying, lug nut-eating creature smeared with my own shit, praying for Pool Day -- I thanky God for every minute of medical experimentation I've received.

As far as ALF's concerned, in the words of the chief foodgiver...bring it on!

It's a sick world

2005-11-23T19:11:00.000-08:00

Now this here just makes me sick. I seen this article layin’ round my stall, and once I started readin' I couldn’t put it down. Then I ate it. But here’s what it said:

“U.S. ranchers are looking towards a meat that is big in most of the world and gaining popularity in this country -- goat.

The Los Angeles Times reports imports of goat meat to the United States jumped 140 percent between 1995 and 2003.

That goat meat, mostly from Australia and New Zealand, accounts for 40 percent of consumption in the United States.

But farmers realize the opportunity of raising goat and are starting to draw bigger herds.

Much of the goat meat is sold to foreign-born citizens from Latino, Asian or Muslim communities, who are used to eating the animal, but it's catching on with more people born in the United States.

There are more than 100,000 goats being raised in California because of the ideal climate. That state is second to Texas and Tennessee in total size of the herds. And all are growing.

Frank Craddock of the Texas Cooperative Extension said domestic goat meat production jumped 81 percent from 1996 to 2003 and estimates an additional 42 percent growth by 2007."

God, and you people say that goats’ll eat anything?

2005-11-20T19:26:00.000-08:00

I’m noticin’ a lot of different things lately -- thing’s which I ain’t noticed before. Give ya an example. For the first time ever, I’m actually tastin’ my food. And you know what? It sucks!

Look here at this “lunch” they served up. You got a bowl of ground-up sorghum, a pile of soggy, flea-ridden straw, and a block of crusted salt to lick on for desert.

Jesus! What the hell do I look like? A garbage disposal?

Here’s another thing. All these animals around here are just plain dumb. Half of 'em lick their own gony-nads, while the other half lick somebody else's. And, Meredith, bless her furry heart, has more flies stuck to her ass than Bush has war excuses. Funny how you notice these things, huh?

Meantime, the experiment’l shots are continuin’. They’re okay, I guess, but if I get any smarter I’m afraid what I might realize next.

No call fer fancy words

2005-11-17T19:42:00.000-08:00

Now them shots are getting’ tirin’, the way they stick ‘em in my rump an’ all, three times a day an' once a night. Meredith says she likes ‘em, says they tickle ‘er, an’ make her laugh till all ten teats are swingin’ ever which way but loose.

What I don’t mind bout medical spear-mentation is the tests afterwards, cause there ain’t nuthin to ‘em. Alls I do is put my head down and plow right through that plywood maze of theirs till I got me my treat, which usually ain’t bad.

Though lately I been going through the maze the way I’m s’posed to -- leftin' an' a rightin'. Ain't that funny? It ain’t confusin’ no more, so why bang the fur off my head?

Meredith says I’m getting’ smarter, but I don’t know. Sometimes I do feel like ‘spanding my vocabulary some, though when yer talkin’ to another goat, there ain’t no call fer fancy words.

The Labby-rynth

2005-11-14T18:55:00.000-08:00

Let’s see…today they put this ol’ goat in some kinda maze, whatcha call a labby-rnyth, and seen how long it took me t'get from one end to the other.

I kept hittin’ my horns against the walls, runnin’ into one dead end after ‘nuther. But after a while, I started smellin’ me sumthin’ good on the other end. Turns out, they had a big ol’ stack of leftover chicken gristles from another part of the vetty-nary clinic.

Well, sir, I jus’ put my ol’ head down and made a straight line fer that smell, plowin’ through ever’ one a them flimsy walls they done built up. Next things I know, I’m diggin’ into them tossed out chicken parts, the kind no foodgiver’ll ever eat.

Mmm…

One of the vetty-men said somthin’ bout me being “fascinating,” and he wrote on this fancy clippy board.

Listen here: if lettin’ hungry goats find their ways to good chow is torturin’ animals through medical spear-mentation, I say torture away!

Ain't got nuthin' better to do...

The boy

2005-11-12T08:18:00.000-08:00

This boy foodgiver comes down to the stalls once a day and cleans out my feesy-dung and whatnot. He sings a song while he’s a workin’:

Ore-ae a dor-ae,
Don’t pee on the floor-ae,
Use the toilet bowl-ae,
That’s what it’s for-ae

He likes ta sing, which I ain’t never heard before, bein’ that the old foodgiver was a beatin’ man who didn’t care nuthin’ fer the arts. Prickhead.

Sorry. I’m just sayin’ I don’t miss ‘im, what with the whippins an’ all.

I think the stall cleaner’s name is Charley, least that’s what Meredith said. Not that she’s got the sharpest horns on ‘er head, mind ye.

Got two more spear-mentation shots today. Lungs are feelin’ better. Testinal bloatin’ all but gone.

Still missin’ Chloe.

A Friend

2005-11-09T17:31:00.000-08:00

Least I got me one friend in this damn place. A few stalls over there's a she goat who's takin' a shine ta me. Now she ain't much ta look at, an when she gets ta talkin' its all a fella can do to get a bray in edgewise, but she's nice an' all.

Course, I still miss Chloe.

My stomach is nearly back to normal, an' I'm finally startin' ta catch my breath again. Meanwise, they keep givin' me the spear-ment shots. Meredith -- that's the she-goat -- says they been spear-mentin' on her for two years. Lordy laws! I'm hopin' I can go home 'fore then...

2005-11-08T18:27:00.000-08:00

This here is the weirdest damn place I ever been, what with the plastic tubes going from stall ta stall, carryin' all manner a' thick gooey stuff that drips straight into one poor animal or 'nuther. Cows, chickens, dogs, poor ol' goats like me.

For chow, alls I been gettin' is some bad tastin' seery-all, that even I don't fancy. An' you know it must be bad, 'cause like I done tol' the The Onion, there ain't much I can't get down the belly hatch. Lord know, it don't gotta be fancy.

You got an ol' pants leg? I'll chew a hole in that, if ya want.

Least my stall is clean, though there ain't a lotta room to move around. Most a day I spend on my side, nursin' this damn 'testinal bloatin' and scorched lungs I picked up on Pool Day. The vetty-narry-man done gimme a shot already, though it don't seem ta help much. Mos'ly the medical spear-mentation hurts my head, which is quite yer co-winki-dink, 'cause that's where they check me the most.

Almost like theys tryin' ta figure out how smart I am, huh?

2005-11-07T18:52:00.000-08:00

Shhhh…we gotta be quiet now. The man foodgiver an’ the vetty-man is talkin’ bout me, an’ I ain’t s’posed to hear. Somethin’ ‘bout signin’ me over – which I ain’t likin’ the sound of.

Man foodgiver says he cain’t ‘ford me no more, and one goat’s too many as it tis. The vetty-man says he can use me for something called medical speer-mentation. They got some newfangled meddy-son they wants to try on me, see what kinda ‘fects it might have.

They got me in a stall next to a sorry lookin’ dairy cow. Bet you ain’t never seen a heifer with a window in her stomach, but that’s ‘zactly what this ol’ girl’s got. They done cut ‘er open and put a round piece of glass in her side so’s they can see what goes on inside her stomachs.

No, sir, I don’t like speer-mentation one bit.

Uh-oh, looks like the man foodgiver is signin’ some papers. Now they’s shakin’ hands. Now I hears the truck an’ the movin’ shed headin’ on down the road.

An’ now alls I hear is Chloe a cryin’ out fer me, an’ me fer her…but that’s all in my mind.

This ol’ goat is plum alone.

2005-11-06T19:40:00.000-08:00

Sorry I ain’t wrote nuthin’ in a day or two, but you ain’t never gonna believe where I been. Right now I’m sitting in a place called a vetty-nary clinic, on account of my bloated ‘testinal tract and various other comply-cations.

Member how I was feelin’ right low after Pool Day? Well, sir, right after that I started goin’ downhill fast. Chloe said I was actin’ drunk and wobbly-legged, an’ perty soon I was on my side, a paddlin’ with all fours fer no good reason.

Next thing I knows, I’m in the back of the movin’ shed, that thing they pull me ‘round in. They took me down here to the vetty-nary, and fer two days I suffered from whatcha call “lethargy.”

Anyhoo, the man foodgiver is right pissed ‘bout the whole episode, sayin’ any goat stupid ‘nough to eat clory-een ain’t worth savin’. Said I was gonna cost him a lotta money, whatever the hell that is.

Meantime, the vetty-nary-man said he wanted to flush out my lungs with a vacuum hose, and then pump some fresh air into my blood – like I’m a damn radiator on a ’89 Plymouth.

“Shit fire!” the man foodgiver said. “I can’t afford none a that! Give ‘im a pill.”

But there ain’t no pill to treat l‘thargy, vetty-man said, so I don’t know what’s gonna happen ta this ol’ goat now.

A Pool Day to Remember

2005-11-02T19:41:00.000-08:00

Ughhhhhh…

'Scuse me fer bein' a few udders short today. Tell ye the truth, I ain’t feelin’ so good, seein’ hows I ate a bit too much. Pool Day'll do that to a fella -- specially like the one we had us yesterday. Lordy, the grub!

Literally, grubs. Not to mention yer centipedes, an’ yer worms, an’ yer lit’l rolly-polly things that go right down the belly hatch, smooth as a whistle.

We found us some crunchy things, too. I got hold of an’ ol’ bubble blower, one of them things the lit’l ‘uns wave ‘round. Chloe, the ol’ lady, ate a big wad of toilet paper somebody’d used to blow their nose with.

(Like I always said, it don’t have to be fancy.)

But you ain’t heard the best yet. Jes when it looked like the party was over, I seen the man foodgiver drop somethin’ what looked like a rolled up waffle. Turns out it was one a’ them pool filters!

I waited nice an’ easy like, till the coast was clear, then I commenced to eatin'. Mind ya, it was clogged three ways to hell with crusty chunks of clory-een, which do make the eyes water. But mixed in was ever' kinda pond scum a goat could imagine: rotten leaves, soggy water spiders, bird feathers all soft and moldy, even a few scabby band-aids...it all went down the belly hatch jes fine. Kinda salty an’ sweet at the same time.

Well, sir, after that I started feelin’ a bit woozy, an next thing I knows I’m a lyin’ down, not hardly breathin’. But I could still reach my tongue out, I could, and while I lay there pantin’ away, I was lickin’ the devil out of that ol’ filter, gettin’ ever’ last bit of cloory-een and various whatnots that I could.

Hell, ain’t that what Pool Day’s all about?

Anyhoo, I slept it off, and though I’m still a lit'l green around the horns, I reckon my appetite's comin’ back, thank ye.

Speakin’ of that…you got anything to eat?

We Interrupt This Broadcast

2005-11-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

Now some people say a goat shouldn’t go on and on like I gets to doin’ sometime. They say I ramble an' 'patiate 'bout nuthin. Heck, to hear them talk, an ol' goat oughta just shut up and chew red deadnettle all day.

Course, every word outta a damn foodgiver's mouth is like a phone call from Solomon, ain't it?

Sorry. Didn't mean to get snippity.

Hold on a second, the ol’ lady’s callin'.

(Huh?)

She says the man foodgiver’s comin’ outta the garage.

(He’s got what? A toolbox? A garden hose?)

Omagod...does that mean what I think it means? Hold on...here he comes! He's walkin' to the pool! He's reachin' fer a wrench. He's undoin' the plug!

Holy Goat, it's finally here! It’s Pool Day!

IT'S POOL DAY!!!!!!!

Mortality an' such...

2005-10-30T13:36:00.000-08:00

Nobody knows how much time they got left in this ol’ world. But us goats really don’t know, cause we got no clue bout how long we’re supposed to live in the first place.

A while back I o’erheard a little foodgiver ask the man foodgiver what kinda goat I was. He said I was something called a Saanens goat. Then the little ‘un asked how long I’d live. Bout 12 years, the man said. How old is he now, the little ‘un wanted to know, and the man told him to “shut the goddam hell up” and stop askin’ so many questions.

Now you know where I pick up my language.

Anyhoo, if a goat lives 12 years, give or take, how much time you reckon I got left? Chloe said it all depends on what a year is. If a year is every time the weather turns different, she and I reckon we’re already halfway to the Big Yard. But maybe a year is every time the weather comes back around…which means we could have a few “years” left.

Alls I know fer sure is that it is seems like a long time since the last Pool Day.

Don’t it?

Pitiful

2005-10-27T19:19:00.000-07:00

Well, jes like I told ya'll earlier, things could be a helluva lot worse. A cousin a' mine sent me this video 'bout some goats in his neighborhood. I tell ya, if this ain't enough to bring a tear to yer whiskers, I don't know what will.

It Could Be Worse

2005-10-27T17:01:00.000-07:00

Now don’t be worryin’ too much about this hungry ol’ goat. I ‘preciate the concern some ‘a ya’ll ‘spressed after yesterday’s post -- what with the fan-belt whippin’ an’ all.

But I’m alright. After all, life ain’t all bad fer a goat.

Sure, we get powerful hungry, an' that can be a burden, but then again, we ain’t too picky about what goes down the ol' belly hatch, either. Like I told The Onion, I’ll eat shoes, pants legs, plastic, tinfoil…you name it.

The yard’s okay. I got me an old swing set in one corner. That’s where the little foodgivers used to play, but now it’s rusted and creaky -- perfect for scratchin’ the ol’ rump against.

Then there’s the road out behind the fence. Lots ‘a good things come blowin’ off there, lemme tell ya. Last week? Someone tossed a Macky Donald’s bag out the window as they was goin’ by. Wind took it right over the fence. Good eatin’ there, friend, ‘specially them empty Big Mac containers and red super-sized fry holders.

It’s the little things, ya know?

Anyhoo, I got the ol’ lady, too. Chloe. She ain’t much ta look at, and she’s only in the mood ‘bout one day a year, but she snuggles perty good. Sometimes, in the dead a' winter, we’ll cuddle up down there by the tool shed and let the snow pile up to our horns. Course, she says I snore too much, an' sometimes I’ll be sleepin’ away nice an’ proper an’ she’ll take a nip outta my flank jus’ to wake me up. Goddam bitch.

Sorry. There ain’t no call for that kinda language, is there?

Nope, overall I 'spect life ain’t all bad fer a goat. As a wise man once said: it could be worse.

And don’t forget: Pool Day’s comin’ soon...and there ain't nuttin' wrong with that!

2005-10-26T18:28:00.000-07:00

Lottsa folks think a goat can have himself a Pool Day any ol’ time he feels like it. “Just gnaw a hole right through that ol flimsy rubber,” they say…as if I ain’t never thought of that before.

But d’ya ever hear the expression, “beaten like a rented mule”? Well, friend, they shoulda said, “beaten like a hungry goat,” cause lemme tell ya, ain’t nothin’ in this world gets beat harder ‘an we do.

Last winter, my ol’ lady, Chloe, got powerful hungry. One day, ‘bout a month after Pool Day, she ate herself a foot or two of air conditioner hose outside the house. Chewed right through the rubber insulation and all the way through the copper tubin’.

Partner, you talk about a pissed off foodgiver! He started runnin’ ‘round in circles, kickin’ at the foundation, screamin’ and carryin’ on like nobody’s business.

Worse part was, I got the blame. The man foodgiver went in the garage and come out with a fan belt off a ’83 Citation. I thought ol’ Chloe was in for it good, but next things I know, he’s lashin’ into me! And ooh-eee, that smarted! I couldn’t eat fer a whole hour.

By the by, you got anything to eat?

Anyhoo, I’ll just wait for Pool Day, thank ye very much. No more fur-whippins fer me. It’ll be here any day now.

Yep, any ol’ day…

Pool Day

2005-10-25T19:24:00.000-07:00

Well, that ‘flatable pool in the yard here always has been a tick on my ass. Bad enough the way it takes up valuable grazin’ land, but then there’s them little foodgivers screamin’ and shoutin’ all summers long. What with their hot dogs and hammyburgers, whatta they care about a hungry old goat like me, the sumbitches?

Sorry. Ain’t no point in name callin’, specially ‘gainst the little uns. The point is, friend, that ‘flatable pool ain’t doin’ me, nor the old lady, a lick ‘a good.

Exceptin’ for one day a year, that is: Pool Day.

Case ya don’t know, fer a hungry goat, Pool Day is like Thanksgiving, Christmas and Fourth ‘a July all rolled into one. It’s when the man foodgiver comes out and drains and drags away that blasted contraption for the winter.

Now, I know what yer thinkin’: there ain’t no grass under that pool, Goat. And if that is what you was thinkin’, you’d be right as rain. But ask yerself this, smarty ass: you suppose any slugs might like livin’ under a dark, damp place like a ‘flatable pool? What about yer teat-mouse, or yer slow-movin’ garden snake?

Betch yer ass they do!

Last Pool Day, I ate me a fam’ly of blind moles so thick and juicy I warn’t hungry fer an hour. (The old lady got hers, too, though I had to gore her flank when she tried muzzlin’ in on an old Marlboro box I was chewin’ on.)

Anyhoo, with the weather turnin’ colder, I ‘spect Pool Day’ll come anytime now. Could be tomorrow. Maybe the day after. One thing’s fer sure…it’s comin’.

That’s the nice thing ‘bout bein’ a goat: good times are always right around the corner.

I got hungry

2005-10-24T19:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I 'spect ya'll heard about the letter I wrote The Onion a few weeks back. I was powerful hungry that day, lemme tell ya. Ya mighta heard I got a touch snippity toward the end. Sorry. That's the thing 'bout being a goat -- sometimes yer stomach'll get the best of ya.

On the other hand, a goat does have the right to eat, don't he? Vittles may come easy for some of ya'll "higher bein's," but us aggies ain't got things so easy. My foodgiver penned me up in an eighth-acre yard (ain't he a big spender?), and half that's taken up with his 'flatable swimmin' pool that I got half a mind to eat. What with the drought we been havin' this summer, I got that grass chewed lower than my old lady's teat. An' like I said, a goat's gotta right to eat, ain't he?

So anyhoo, I wrote that darn letter to The Onion, hopin' for a spell of relief. But did I get something for my troubles? Even a little nibble? An old pants leg, or oily rag? Hell no. Turns out them damn foodgivers been spendin' all their time helpin' hurrycane victims down south. Like them fat Cajun hillbillies need more food! Them Red Cross do-gooders got them food tents set up all over the place down there, dishin' out some 500,000 meals a day -- solid chow, too, from whats I hear -- and what does a hungry goat get? Jack shit, that's what.

Sorry. I do get mad sometimes. But I know that letter's gonna pay off sooner or later.

Speaking of that...you got any food?

2005-10-24T19:46:00.000-07:00

A Goat