I thought someone was being murdered, and was screaming for anyone who could to come help.
Without shoes on, I rushed outside to listen and realized that it was not, in fact, someone near death, but was our neighbor’s new goat screaming once again.
It had been days of this –
Me being jolted as I was cooking or reading, running to help,
then remembering this new furry terrorist.
Never in my life have I heard such a sound:
Kind of Normal Goat at first, then morphing in the end to some kind of demon yodel warble war yell.
What on earth was happening over that fence?
I tried doing a chin-up on it, but who am I kidding?
My feet never left the ground, and I couldn’t tell.
My husband and I snorted as it would start up and I daily went to record as proof of what we were living through.
I had posted about it on Facebook.
This faceless goat was gaining fame.
I was glad that we have so many white noise sound machines, and felt sorry for the new family who had just moved in on the other side of the gate.
About four nights in it was relentless, and I told my husband, Justin, that I wanted to take a walk to escape.
He had only half-changed out of his work clothes, however, and had landed in a stained collared work shirt paired with some old sweat shorts, winter socks and sandals.
He motioned to himself and said he couldn’t go out that way.
“Come on. It will be fine. We’re just going around our own neighborhood! No one will even see us. Look at me. I’m still in my pajama pants, my shirt has cat hair on it, and I haven’t even showered today.
It will be OK. I promise.”
Spoiler Alert: It was not OK.
We walked on a short way when we saw the goat neighbor about to drive by, and in a hushed tone I hissed at Justin to PLEASE flag her and ask her when and if that goat was going to die.
I gently (not gently) nudged him forward.
I just had to know.
By the time the neighbor even got her window fully down, I could tell that she knew what we were going to ask about. She covered her face and yelled out three swear words into her open palms.
She said, “I KNOW. I want to kill that thing, too,” but it had just been taken away from its mom and it was struggling to be alone.
They would be going that night to get it a friend, she offered up.
We had to talk over the wails agreeing that, hopefully, by tonight the whole thing would be solved.
For a few minutes I felt sorry for the goat that had been raising my blood pressure for now four days. A feeling that was obviously momentary because of the next part happening.
After our encounter with the goat neighbor, we curled up around the bend to see two people coming towards us.
I didn’t recognize them, which is strange on this dead-end street, where virtually everyone here knows one another.
I attempted to avoid eye contact harder than if Medusa was coming forth,
but before I could dive into a bush the man of the two called out to us, beckoning.
Now Justin was nudging ME forward.
My face was smiling by my insides were not.
All I could think about was my own voice saying that no one would even see us so who cared how we looked.
How we looked was like we should have been reported by the Neighborhood Watch.
Two swirly-eyed vagrants fleeing what sounded like a murder.
Everyone be on the look-out.
They introduced themselves as the new neighbors, but I nearly missed their names for how hard I was panicking looking back and forth between me and Justin and thinking of what we were wearing.
I lied, Justin. OK? I lied so hard. This would NOT be even KIND OF OK.
The wife’s beautiful sweater just there mocking me.
I watched her eyes try to discreetly take us in. As if she even could.
They were a dashing young couple who could not have been more than 29.
We, like a strong example of genetic abnormality.
The four of us would have looked like the evolutionary chart if you’d stood us in a line.
Why is it that every time you think it will be OK to just wear out any old thing that’s when you see your ex-boyfriend, or some cheerleader you fought with in high school, or meet your new neighbors who clearly only buy expensive things?
I could tell they’d never once put back a pack of chicken for being three cents less than the first one they grabbed.
They’d probably passed right by me before snarling, clutching armfuls in the Target Dollar section and thought how glad they were they weren’t THAT kind of poor.
Justin seemed like he didn’t even notice.
I should have known. He often misses things.
Like bottles of ketchup
“Right there on the top shelf by your nose. Your NOSE. Never mind. I’ll just get it.”
Not the Top Observer of Things.
He just stood there sharing every detail of our lives in his sandals and thick socks,
but I definitely saw the wife wondering about the way my pajama pants bunched in three lumps under my shirt because of the tie.
“Maam, I swear this is not a colostomy bag.”
I definitely felt what was behind her look.
“Hi. We’re the Greens. Come any time for some sugar. I promise we’ll sift out the bugs.”
I could almost feel my front two teeth loosening and about to fall into my cupped hand the longer I stood, so I did the only thing that I could do in that kind of moment:
I THREW A NEWLY ORPHANED GOAT UNDER THE BUS.
“So….What about that GOAT, huh?! What is even UP with that thing?!”
I threw it out like a smoke-screen.
Their minds instantly distracted by their remembrance of the sounds of something dying way out in the field.
And just like that I’d brought us to common ground.
Them, no longer higher than us.
Just four people with shared goat trauma on the same page.
We got back home from our walk just in time to see the goat neighbor pull back in hauling the second goat.
The moment that truck turned off, however, the new goat also started screaming,
and I swear it was worse than the first one.
Ah.
Home Sweet Home,
full of so many sights and sounds.
Our streak as the weirdest neighbors is still unbroken, as you can see.
We may never again go back out.
Country mice, and City Mice –
Simultaneously separated, and brought together by a goat screaming bloody murder from under a bus.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
