From 1983 to 1988, the year my dad passed away, I lived on a farm of sorts. My dad’s property – forty acres in the middle of East Texas. He called it The Pine Curtain. He raised pigs, goats, chickens, pheasant and quail. Geese and ducks lived on the pond. I accused him of having a petting zoo, because it seemed like the animals considered themselves tenants – not a possible food source.
My dad would let them out, and they’d follow him around, like interns following the lead doctor in a hospital. Most people would think it was an illusion or trick, but the animals just knew my dad loved them, even though some of them did eventually end up on the menu.
The goats didn’t think of themselves as goats. They were guests. They were Nubian goats. The female, Gracie, was black and white, and the male, Homer, was brown and orange. When dad first brought them home, they were just kids. They’d follow him and eat the grass, meandering around like foreign tourists, “No, thank you, we’re just visiting.”
When they matured, they mated and had little goats. Two at a time. The little ones would follow my son around when he was four or five, and if anything got near Mike, they’d chase them off. It wasn’t unusual to see my son digging in the backyard, playing like little boys will, with two small goats standing guard like unpaid babysitters.
When my dad passed away, my mom had me sell the larger animals, the pigs and goats, because she couldn’t handle the workload. An older man down the road had goats on his farm and agreed to buy Homer and Gracie. I warned him Homer was better suited to be penned in or tied so he didn’t cause any damage. Even though Homer was a goat, he was like a bull in a china shop.
The man assured me that he’d been raising goats all his life and could handle anything Homer had up his sleeve (or hoof).
After about a week, I ran into the man at the local feed store. He told me he was sorry he didn’t believe me. He had let Homer roam the house grounds, unsupervised. The goat had apparently climbed on top of his wife’s car and beat the hood up, kicking in the windshield and eating the vinyl roof.
I asked if he’d done anything to the goat, and he told me he tied Homer up. He thought about shooting him but admitted that I had warned him, so he didn’t have the heart.
I made Homer’s bail!
Goats are pretty smart if you raise them from babies, but once in a awhile you get one who is just plain ornery. But much like people, even goats deserve a chance…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. John is currently doing a two-year set off, after 25 years of incarceration. He is a frequent contributor as well as author of Life Between The Bars, a unique and heartwarming memoir recognized by Terry LeClerc, “This book is so good because each chapter is short, has a point, doesn’t whine. It’s an excellent book.” John can be contacted at:
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583
