Why goats are Evil (part 1)

My mother married my step father when I was around twelve years old and my life changed forever. He has been the only father that I have known and he has set a great example for me to measure myself up to. But, if you look closely at his shiny halo, you’ll notice that there are a few tarnished spots of mischief that he can’t resist indulging in on occasion. I remember the first time that I caught a glimpse of one of those soiled halo marks and I shutter at the memory. I simply call that time…’The Great Goat Terror’.

My step-dad makes a good living selling livestock. You know, horses, cattle, some dogs and a wide variety of other four legged money makers. When he married my mother, he gave my sisters and me wonderful gifts of motorcycles, horses and other sorts of excitement. We have some very fond memories of growing up in that household. So, one day my best friend Charlie and myself were thrilled when my step-dad announced that he and my mother were going to Brownsville Texas, near the border of Mexico to buy a truckload of cheap goats in order to bring them back home and sell them at outrageous prices. With a strange look in his eye(which in our naivety, we mistakenly interpreted as that of a caring father) he smiled and casually offered, "Why don’t you and Charlie come along and you guys can camp out and ride in the trailer." Now to a couple of twelve year olds this sounded awesome. A trip to a far off land, just us pals taking in the sights of the mysterious open road. I guess Charlie and I weren’t very bright; we eagerly accepted.

We built an upper deck in the long trailer out of plywood and my step-dad filled two ice chests full of pops, chips, and incredibly un-healthy snacks. We felt like kings as we loaded up our sleeping bags and climbed up on our fresh, clean wooden throne of the upper deck. We howled with unbound anticipation as the truck and trailer rattled out of the driveway and headed down the road.

It was a glorious trip down there. The trailer had open slots running down it’s length and provided us with fresh air and a magnificent view of the vehicles passing by with exotic people from different states. We marveled at the sites of strange cities and imagined what it would be like to live there. Charlie and I talked of how we were going to conquer the world and finally drifted to sleep under the canopy of a beautifully starlit Texas sky; swaying gently to the humming of the wheels as they skimmed over the highway. We spent a night in a Brownsville motel and Charlie and I stayed there the next day to swim as my parents went to buy the goats. In the afternoon they came back and that’s when the first uneasy feeling hit me. The trailer was packed from bottom to top of every size, shape and color of goats. There were nervous skinny ones, fat bored ones, and some that I could swear were a cross between a hyena and a wild boar.

My step-father could sense our trepidation of crawling into the midst of these beast so he played his trump card. In front of my mother he announced, ”You don’t have to ride back here if you think it’s going to be too crowded.", then when she was out of earshot he taunted, "it’s okay if your scared of a few goats, I won’t tell anyone." Those challenging words struck us to our twelve year old pseudo-macho cores and sealed our fate. With determined upper lips we climbed into the trailer.

The arrangement was that if it became uncomfortable, all we had to do was wave our arms outside of the trailer and he would stop so we could get into the truck. This promise was suggested by my mother and my step-dad wore his best Boy Scout face as he said, "Oh, yeah, just let me know and I’ll pull right over."

The slamming of the trailer door behind us echoed with the foreboding of a creaking coffin lid being closed.

As the trailer lurched forward, Charlie and I turned to face the goats who were eyeing us with evil leers…

To be continued….