1775. Life's not a bed of roses|
© Bruce Goodman 30
Some think the life of a goat is easy; especially the life of a billy goat. They think that all I do all day is stand around and eat grass. Well that’s certainly not the case.|
I am the sole male in a herd of forty or so milking goats. Don’t you think that keeps me busy enough? A while back, it seems like yesterday, I butted a troll hiding under a bridge. I knock him to smithereens. Do you think I enjoyed having to do such a thing? Well, I did actually. So there!
Only yesterday, Constantia, the most productive of all the goats, went and ate a shirt hanging on the farmer’s clothes line. How selfish is that? It was the only garment available and she kept it all to herself.
To make up for it, this morning I went and had a good feed of the farmer’s roses. The red roses were the tastiest, followed by the white. I didn’t find the yellow particularly appealing but to each their own.
The farmer’s wife has just announced that I’m going to the abattoir. I suppose that’s a fancy French word for some tourist resort where they have petting animals for children. Or maybe it’s simply a lush new pasture. New horizons, that’s what I’m hoping for! Who knows what it might be? The farmer’s wife is such a snob.
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