Getting All Your Ducks In A Row

Quite early this morning, while awaiting our morning repast, we looked out to view what you see above. What a surprise! I don't know if I mentioned it before, but of late, a pair of ducks has been frequenting our little pond. Sometimes they would both be in the pond. Sometimes it would be just one or the other. But, every morning and every evening, like clock-work, the pair could be seen out under the bird feeders near the house, gobbling up spilled seeds cast aside by other sloppy little winged and beaked creatures. In fact, it became quite a daily challenge for the goatmother and the goatfather, to keep the Mighty Quinn from playing 'fetch the duck' instead of 'fetch the ball'. Then for awhile, we began to see only Mr. Duck or Mrs. Duck, but never both of them together. Little did we know.

So, now there are nine of these little puff balls floating about in the pond. By goaty! That is enough to start our own baseball team! They would probably have a bit of trouble with the catching and throwing part, but they'd sure enough be goat-berries-on-wheels at intercepting those high pop flies. Maybe, just maybe, we can come up with another Duckey Mantle or Rube Mallard, or even a Duckie Robinson out of the group. Of course they'll never be able to measure up to greats like Kid Nichols or Doe DiMaggio, but that only gives them something to aspire to.

Hmmm...I wonder if we can get Tommy LaSorda? With someone like 'The Goatfather' of baseball, we'll just have to make him an offer he can't refuse. I'll be in the barn counting out the Peanuts if you need me.

Dinner and a Dance

I gave up on the goatmother as a possible dance partner a looooong time ago. It just wasn't happening. She's nice and her Peanuts are good, but when it came to tripping the light fantastic, things ultimately seemed to end up stagnating in the 'tripping' pool. This didn't leave me with too many options, but after a LOT of groveling and begging (not by me) , I decided to give Boo a try. Now remember Boo is a Nubian. Of course I would be the very last one to say anything derogatory, but that fact just didn't bode well for the outcome. Still, I'm a non-prejudiced, equal-opportunity, hire-the-handicapped kind of goat, so what the hay?

The first problem is, well, a little embarrassing. Boo has had a few too many Peanuts. This does not make her light on her feet. In fact, it doesn't make her light on anyone's feet (which is probably actually where she is bound to end up). So I tried and tried to teach her the moves and how to keep pace. Let's face it. She just ain't got no rhythm. Black goats can't jump.

So when practice time comes around (which is always best at feeding time since that scenario offers the most incentive for Boo) here is what happens. The goatmother steps through the gate with the feed buckets in one hand and reaches back across the gate to latch it before proceeding. At this point what is supposed to happen is that I gracefully jump to the side and Boo is supposed to jump to the other side. We are then supposed to meet in a graceful bow, pirouette, and come to rest on opposite sides.

This is what really happens: The goatmother steps through the gate with the feed buckets in one hand and indeed reaches back across the gate to latch it. I gracefully jump to the side preparing to move smoothly and gracefully ahead. At this point, Boo, forgetting all decorum and overtaken by glutinous fervor, runs head-first into the back of the goatmother, butting her forward directly into the path of my, by then, pirouette, at which time Ella gets into the act and hits the goatmother head-long from the other side. Boo then waddles quickly (if one can indeed waddle quickly) in a large circle across the back half of the barn, clomping loudly and ungracefully over the wooden pallet, and intercepts the flying goatmother knocking her into yet a third flying-camel. The goatmother recovers, all the while spewing epithets and casting aspersions on Boo's character, finally making it to the rail to deposit the buckets.

Something tells me I have a LOT more work to do here. I believe Boo, in true Nubian style, has things a bit confused. We are attempting Ball Room dancing, not Ball Room brawling, for Goat's Sake! They say that if you have a dream you must reach for the stars. At this rate those 'stars' (Dancing With the Stars) are just getting further and further out of reach. Where is John Travolta when you need him, Eh?

Power To The People...I Mean Goats!

No explanation necessary. We are working for YOU!

A Little Fraternization

The Homegoat Security Team has been operating at top efficiency...or so we thought. But we all got a bit of an eye-opener when the goatmother was cleaning the barn. Now in the barn are two wooden pallets...sort of barracks bunks, if you will. It seems that when the goatmother raised the pallet on the right to clean, several baby mice ran in all directions. Remember the mouse that literally begged to join the team awhile back? The pretty much useless one that could only point when it really mattered? Indeed it would seem that someone , supposedly on duty scanning the night against security threats, was, in actuality, entertaining. Great Capricorn in the sky!!! Is this an embarrassment or what?! Talk about dereliction of duty! Still, I suppose we could use a few more sets of eyes on the team. They did seem fairly swift on their feet and quick thinking. That is except for that last one that peeked it's nose out of the remains of the little nest several minutes after everyone else had dispersed. He kind of looked around as though someone had just turned the lights on and then just casually sauntered off. Perhaps a new branch is in order to accommodate that one ... something along the lines of Border Banal Rock Violations?

A Treatise on Competition

What's the big deal with competition? What's so important that it requires being 'first' or even 'best'. And why does anyone need to be 'best', in the , pardon the pun, 'first' place? Take Ella for example. When the sacred Peanuts are doled out, Ella is leaning over the gate stretching that long 'graceful', 'best' neck to the max in an attempt to be 'first'. Half the time she ends up choking herself. Now is this really worth all that effort? Me? I just hang back and look 'pitiful'. Works every single time. I get more Peanuts than anyone else because the goatmother always ends up feeling sorry for me. And this method has a double reward because Ella spends so much time trying to butt me out of the way that she misses out on a whole lot of the goodies. Wit far exceeds brawn, don't you think?

In my humble and wise opinion, this whole 'first-best' idea simply displays a lack of confidence. You see some goats, and even some people, just have this idea that competition is the way to get ahead in life, be 'someone' and get noticed. They don't have any confidence in themselves. Thus, they think discourteous and sarcastic manners will make them 'expert' and gain them respect. Belittle someone and make yourself bigger! Go for that brass ring and by all means be FIRST! Bleat louder than any other and you will not only 'win', but you will be revered and feared in doing so! Does anyone really learn anything from that except to be fearful? I don't think so, Tim.

From a philosophical standpoint that idea just doesn't stand to reason. Chrysippus, a disciple of Zeno (remember good ole' Zeno?) said, "And this very thing constitutes the virtue of the happy man and the smooth current of life - when all actions promote the harmony of the spirit dwelling in the individual man with the will of that which orders the universe." And you are thinking, 'now what the hay does that mean???' It means, dear friend, that good things come to those who not only wait, but sit back and think it over before they act. It means being courteous to the other goats around you, all the while planning the most advantageous and smoothest mode of action to get your Peanuts. It means realizing that we are all 'one' despite our differences. It means acting in 'harmony...of that which orders the universe'. It means being peaceful.

Montaigne said, "The conduct of our lives is the true reflection of our thoughts." In keeping with this idea, my thought is this: If you build it (confidence), they will come. There is no need to be 'pushy' to get what you want. Being rude eventually comes back to slap you on the tail. Be kind, but use your brain. Respect those around you. After all, at the end of the day, we all eat our Peanuts the same way.

The Zen of Beards

There. Can you see it? I'm growing a beard! Yes! I believe I have perhaps seven hairs there. This is awesome! You are probably wondering what all the excitement is about. I mean goats have beards, don't they? But let me tell you, not every goat is privileged to have hair on their chin. No siree! I'm so excited! I'm special! Boo doesn't have a beard and neither does Ella. Well, the goatfather does, but that doesn't count. Still, the biggest reason for my excitement is that now I am truly able to become 'one' with my philosophical idols. Revolutionary thinkers like Socrates, Parmenides...Ginsberg. And just look at Confucius! They all had, (sigh) ... beards.

The story goes that Buddha, one day, picked up a flower and raised it to eye level. He then returned to his seat without speaking. I guess his disciples were a bit perplexed (I can understand this) but one, Mahkasyapa, (I don't know what this means, but I think it may be mountain beaverese), simply smiled at Buddha, who simply smiled back. According to legend, this was the moment Zen was born. (Well, there is probably a little more to it than that, but I'm a goat. What do I know?)

So why am I telling you about Zen? Because beards are Zen. All one has to do is look at a beard and one instantly knows. And if you are blessed enough to actually have a beard, well, that just goes into that whole realm of 'smiling and simply smiling back'. Beards are. Beards emanate. Beards ROCK!

So now that you know the innate value of beards, allow me to leave you with this quote and you will 'simply' understand my ebullience. "Follow your inner moonlight, don't hide the madness." - Allen Ginsberg. (simple smile...)

The Continuing Adventures of the Mighty Quinn

Yesterday was a day quite like no other. Early in the morning I looked out the barn toward the house, hoping against small hope, that it was time for breakfast. What I observed, instead, was the goatmother coming out the front door with the Mighty Quinn in tow destined for his morning toilette. However, when the goatmother set the mighty little blighter down, he made a bee-line straight for the flower bed that runs along the front of the deck. Now this flower bed is rife with fir shavings that serve to mulch the plants. Fir shavings are indeed good for mulch, or so I hear, but it seems that some time during the night, the neighbor's cat had decided they would be good for quite a different reason. And so, on this ill-fated morning, the flower bed and resident fir shavings held a surprise. A surprise to which the Mighty Quinn was mightily attracted, and to which the goatmother, most assuredly, was not. The Mighty Quinn was immediately called with the five short whistles that mean 'if you come, you will get a treat'. Surprisingly, and obligingly, he left his newly discovered 'treat' in favor of the one being proffered by the much relieved goatmother. That's what happened in the morning.

Later, after our breakfast finally arrived, the goatmother went to rid the flower bed of it's most recent acquisition. I could hear her exclaiming clear across the yard about what a healthy colon the neighbor's cat has. To be sure, the disposal was completed and the shavings returned to their former state. But periodically throughout the day, a commotion would arise each time the Mighty Quinn passed the area, and was magnetically drawn, like a goat to Peanuts, to this now familiar spot. Apparently the eau de cologne was persistent.

Finally dusk arrived. We had eaten our dinner and were just about to settle down to some serious hay munching when we heard another disturbance from the direction of the house. This time it was coming from the back. It was growing dark and the goatmother had again brought the Mighty Quinn out. But the Mighty Quinn was in no mood to relieve himself just yet and began dashing hither and yon about the yard. Now when I say 'dash', I mean this boy could win an Olympic medal. He's even faster than a speeding goat at feeding time!

Finally Quinn disappeared behind one of the lilac bushes and emerged with something in his mouth. The goatmother looked disheartened. I could see this even in the growing darkness, and even from the barn. She used the five short whistles. Quinn just looked at her with 'whatever-it-was' sticking out either side of his mouth. If a dog can grin, Quinn was grinning. Finally after a recreational game of chase and a few more short whistles, the Mighty Quinn dropped 'whatever-it-was' in favor of the treat. It was still just light enough that the goatmother could make out that 'whatever-it-was' was, in fact, half a dead mouse. Great Goat only knows what happened to the other half. The goatmother screwed up her face into the classic Greek 'Ick' position, at which point the Mighty Quinn took the opportunity to snatch up the dead half mouse and scoot away - free again. A few more whistles and the prize was dropped with the Mighty Quinn coming expectantly for his treat. Relief! ...except, by now it was quite dark and the errant half body was nowhere to be found.

All too predictably, the Mighty Quinn was unceremoniously scooped up and ushered into the house, wherein loud yelling could be heard telling the goatfather to get the heck up out of that bed and watch the Mighty Quinn so the goatmother could go back out. In the dark. With the flashlight. The wayward, hemicorporal mouse, had to be found and disposed of. After all, hadn't the Mighty Quinn already proven he was quite capable of 'returning to the scene of the crime' earlier in the day?

The view from the barn was interesting to say the least. A dark form in the night, flashlight in hand. A mysterious beam casting about... searching .... Alas, the recalcitrant mouse booty could not be located, and all the goatmother got for her effort were scores of mosquitoes and moths buzzing merrily about. In defeat she returned to the house to await the dawn.

As they say, 'herein lies the rub'. Tomorrow morning, or perhaps late in the night, it will be a toss up. Which way will the Mighty Quinn go? Will he lead us to the front incident site and perhaps another new and disgusting deposit? Or, will he go to the the back, scoop up the half a dead mouse, and proceed to dash around the house with it hanging gayly from his jaws and just out of reach of anyone trying to retrieve it? I'm not a betting goat myself, but exceptions can be made in special circumstances. Anyone care to place a wager?