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Thursday, December 24 2009

Montoya's disdain for goats grew over time. They were safe in their own paddock, but woe to the goat who strayed into his Kingdom. This happened two years ago . . . nothing has changed.


Montoya, my four year old gelding, provided me with his version of bullfighting last night:

I am a cop. I get home late. Tired. Walk in barn. Notice that several goats have escaped their pen and are inside Montoya's paddock. Hmmmmm . . . that was probably entertaining at some point. Goats are happy to see me. I am not as thrilled to see them. Herding goats is not an activity anyone wants to do after midnight. Goats want in their stall, but cannot figure out how to get into their stall so they are huddled in the stall with the chickens. Huddled . . .  Hmmmm . . .


Note that Montoya is in the stall beside them looking a bit peeved. There is a board across the chicken's stall doorway to keep His Royal Highness out of the chicken scratch. Goats are huddled safely behind this bar. Feed horses so His Royal Highness is occupied while I try to figure out how to easily move four billy goats into their paddock. Decide best course of action would be to just lock goats in chicken stall and figure out where they got out when the sun comes up.


Go to shut stall door. One goat decides that I really want to barbecue him and thus he must race out of stall before I can shut door. Other goats panic and want to follow but I slam door in their faces. Now they are screaming. Chickens are clucking because goats are stepping on them. His Royal Highness has decided that this is FAR more interesting than his supper, so he exits his back door to come investigate.


HRH notes the loose goat. I swear, horses have "Spock" eyebrows because His Royal Highness gives Nitwit Goat the"Spock" eyebrow. Nitwit Goat screams in terror. HRH lowers his head and charges Nitwit. I yell at HRH. Colt looks at me with complete innocence. Nitwit continues to bleat in terror while his caged friends scale the wall of the stall. His Royal Highness peeks into their stall. There is a moment of silence. I yell at HRH. He gives me a look that only chaplains and little old ladies should wear. I yell at him again and order him back in his stall. He shrugs and walked inside. I open back door to goat stall. Nitwit is too scared to enter. He continues to run around bleating while his compadres answer in sympathy. I try to herd him inside.


Convinced that I am the Spawn Of Satan with a Fork, Nitwit Goat runs from me in blind panic. Barbecued goat was beginning to sound good. Nitwit begins running in circles farther and farther from the open stall door. This proves too much temptation for His Royal Highness. Like a gray Specter of the Night On Wings, His Royal Highness glides out of the stall. Nitwit decides that perhaps I am not the only Spawn of Satan in the pasture. He screams and runs for the barn. With a move that would make any cutting horse proud, His Royal Highness swoops in front of the goat. This was the stuff of Nitwit Nightmares. Alone, away from the herd, a Giant Gray Demon toys with him. Nitwit is beside himself with horror. His Royal Highness is having the time of his life . . . until I yell at him. The Choir Boy stops and looks at me.


"Huh?"


"Quit chasin' the goat. We'll be out here all night."


"Not if I catch him."


"Touche"


"So can I kill him?"


"No, then we'll have a dead goat in the pasture."


"I have no problem with that."


"I'll give you an apple if you'll go into your stall."


"DEAL!"


So His Royal Highness hustled to his stall. Nitwit grabbed that opportunity to race into the goat stall. And I finally got to go to bed.

 

Posted by: forensicfarmgirl AT 08:16 am   |  Permalink   |  0 Comments  |  Email
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