Well, I just finished Rotary today with a phone call that the next door neighbor was coming to get his BILLIE GOAT.  Yep I said  BILLIE GOAT, and he’s right in the middle of town.  Apparently it is permitted to have a house goat, but I don’t think that GOATS DO ROAM is the name of the fine wine.

The Run Up:

Thursday night: our across-the-street neighbor, the tennis coach, dropped by for a beer.  Next door to him, our historic-district hippies have chickens and a Billie goat.  Coach had spent an hour wrangling the goat in the garden, calling for help, and hoping that he would not get ripped by the horns.  Finally coach caught a fellow walking along the street who could help find a rope and go over to the GOAT house. Of course, no one was at the goat home, and there didn’t seem to be a gate for their back yard. One of the boys finally came home, picked up the goat by the feet, all the while saying Billie doesn’t like being handled by the horns.  This is the middle of town, so goats and chickens are not so welcomed.  Luckily the tennis coach didn’t hurt himself.  Did I say that Billie has sharp horns and likes to butt?

Friday:  The tennis booster club has a huge rummage/trunk/jumbo sale  going on Saturday.  We had donated a truckload of bits and pieces of antique furniture all needing repair. I went to photograph and inventory the items so the appropriate “thank you for your donation” letter can be sent from the Advisory Council.

Friday is Rotary Day.  As I was leaving for Rotary at noon, I stepped into the side yard and there was BILLIE GOAT, nibbling on the low branches of an oak tree.  As soon as BILLIE saw me, he abandoned the tree and ran over to get scratched and butt me.

I had never been in the same yard as BILLIE. I had a computer and camera in my hands, and really, really didn’t want to be butted or ripped, and really, really was backing up fast. I got Charles on the cell phone and over to the yard. I took a trash can to fend off Billie after depositing the camera on top of a recycle bin and getting the computer in-doors.  We had a rope, but it was way too small.  Besides, it had been a long time since we had to tie off such a frisky critter.

Charles headed off the goat who seemed fixated on my backside by grabbing his horns and wrestling him away from the back door. We managed to get enough gates closed so we thought that Billie was secured and wouldn’t run out into the streets, but he still wanted to play. That goat came very close to becoming an immediate candidate for Hawaiian roasted goat.

I left Charles to tend to the goat and went to Rotary, where I kept my phone on against all the rules.  I smelled like goat.  I noticed one lady got up and moved away.  The two old codgers on either side  looked at me funny and waited for an explanation. Shur ‘nough, the neighbor called to say he was out-of-town, but one of the owners was on his way to escort the goat back home.  Billie has a pen, but I guess the owners can’t remember to put BILLIE in the pen.

We aren’t mad at the goat. We think that the owners are a little simple, a lot careless, and certainly irresponsible. BILLIE has figured out a way to get over or through the fence and into the water, shade, and garden.  Why not? The goat’s not stupid. BILLIE even polished off an old straw hat that was decorating a tree stump.

If there is a next time, Billie may wind up at the meat processors.  It will be turned into smoked goat, Hawaiian style wrapped in banana leaves, if I can get Charles to dig the hole in the back yard.

I am not sure what GOATS have to do with Cocktails with Lydia, other than to say that my life continues to take interesting twists every day.