Goats, Em? And my two cent memories

Joe, I may sell to go after a PhD with Em and Jaren (though I haven't discussed this with them yet.) For now my beautiful daughter, Meg, and her ex-Jehovah Witness, ex-heroin addict husband (long story)-- who's getting baptised in three weeks--will be cutting the grass and feeding the ducks while I'm gone. If I do sell, I promise I'll call you, so you can come fishing again. But I won't be moving into a town--ever. I get sick when too many people are thinking all at the same time around me, and I'm sure I could never sleep closed in with a lot of people filling up the air with their own dreams. And what if they were dreaming silly dreams? I hate stupid dreams. I've had peace here and much healing; it may be too difficult to move. . . . or it may have served its purpose.

Em. I cannot believe you put goats on my blog; if my cowboy dad sees it, he'll freak. He already thinks you're weird from the deck party when you shoved a whole hamburger in your mouth, slobbering tomatoes while Trevor filmed it. . . .

My memory, Jaren? I had a goat once. We were leaving the Blackfoot fair, walking by the petting zoo, when a guard stopped us because a Shetland was birthing a colt. Twilight, warm air, holding my husband's hand, watching a miracle--whew. A pygmy goat kept rubbing up against my leg; she hid behind me because the Shetland was screaming (horse screams are different from human; painful, but cleaner, more pure--can't explain; no words for it). I knelt by the goat to keep her from being scared, and my son, Turner, shook his head and said, "Don't even think about it, Mom." Yep. She rode home in the back of the car with T. After a couple of days, she thought she was a dog and would run down the lane to meet the kids, chase any car that drove in, bunt cats with her head. One time I let her in the house when Dad was there, and he said "Oh sh--!" Put on his hat and left. (Do you know why cowboys hate sheep and goats? Because they eat the grass clear down almost to the roots, so it won't grow fast enough for cattle to range on it. But now who the h--- cares, except old old cowboys, because most of our cattle belong to BIG ranches and rodeo stock, and the government owns most of the range. My, My, I forgot how I hate the big government.) Anyway, I couldn't wait 'til summer when I could really play with this goat. But Taylor came in from feeding the horses one day to tell me he'd found blood and hair along the snow path. "I'll go find her," he said. All of us, including grandchildren, threw on coats. If she was dead, I needed to see it. If I don't face crap like that, it stays on, floating around in my head, hanging around to drop on my Prufrock plate at the oddest times, and the plate's already too full. We checked out the fox den, but something had been after them also. The grand kids found her. We saw them across the field, standing still and staring at the ground. A coyote from the river maybe or huge dogs (several; many tracks) had ripped open her stomach to get at the food I'd fed her the night before. Later Brayten (5 yrs then) said, "I wish I hadn't seen her." Parker (10) said, "Geez, stop talking about it, Brayten." Brayten spun around and yelled at him, "Shut up, Parker. I gotta talk about it." (I've always admired that kind of courage.) Then he asked me if I thought the goat went to heaven. I said, "Heck yeah, I've got so many animals in heaven that there's barely going to be room for us--dogs, cats, horses, frogs, turtles, fish, canaries, but no snakes-- the Lord's probably already given them our ranch up there to run around on. That goat is probably sleeping in your room right now." . . . Geez, what a stupid thing to say, especially when I wanted to leave, go to the barn and kick some hay, swear every swear word I know--which are many. Well, that was a darn sad memory. Sorry. Biker chick's fault. (How funny, Jaren.) She started it.

But I must warn you, I do write whatever sits on the end of my tongue, which may be sentimental, cheese, kitch, and sometimes some darn nice sentences, sooooo my friends . . . I need some sleep, or I'll stay home again to play with my dog tomorrow and soon get fired from my job. Oh darn.