Next Up, Perhaps I'll Liberate a Chicken from a Slaughterhouse

A conversation I carried on yesterday:

 

Me: Hi you pretty little thing!  What are you doing?

 

Her: Bleeeat

 

Me: Um, so you have a collar and no tag.  That’s not so great, kid.

 

Her: Maaaa

 

Me: What is up with this wandering on the highway business?  Do you want to end up in somebody’s Roadkill Stew?  Do you have a deathwish, little sweet?  Is it the economy?  Don’t let it get you down, girl.  Things’ll get better.

 

Her: Munch munch munch

 

Me: (pondering) To whom do you belong, little goat.  To whom?

 

Her: Maaaaaaa

 

********

 

The wee thing followed me closely as I paced, trying to decide what to do (along with the other lady who stopped to rescue this wayward barn animal.)  With the baby strapped into the car seat I couldn’t wander far, but I didn’t have the heart to leave this dim bulb out to get squashed by a speeding vehicle, so I decided to drive to a few different farmhouses nearby and see if anybody was missing something short, bearded, and hungry.  I opened my car door and the goat bounded up to it, happily prepared to join me in the driver’s seat.  She was clearly a pet used to riding in cars, and by the way who takes a goat in a car?  I blocked with my shoulder and then she wobbled around to the front of the car where she perched just in front of the tire, munching grass.  God.  This dumb goat wins the Darwin award.

 

My partner in rescue hooked her around the collar and dragged her out of the car’s path, and I headed down the nearest gravel drive.  I tapped on the glass storm door – "Hello?  My name is Gillian, and by the way are you missing a goat?"  When the dude in socks with a beer in his hand rolled his eyes and shouted over his shoulder to the wife – Damn goat’s got out again – I knew I’d found my man.

 

He followed me back to the road and fetched the goat, and I sped off down the country drive, happy in the knowledge that I now had a cute story for my blog.  The End.