Shorty

This is Shorty. He was one of our neighbor-dogs. As dogs go, he was okay. He was small and non-threatening, and he even fell in our pond once. We were all very entertained that day. Yesterday, Shorty's life met a tragic end when he was accidentally run over. Sometimes life deals you bad Peanuts and it seems like there are just no good ones to be found - anywhere. But I prefer to think of these things in less distressing terms - besides, it hurts less that way.

Perhaps Shorty was called to some important mission elsewhere. Somewhere we can't go - at least not yet. It hasn't been all that long ago that the neighbor's father passed away. He loved Shorty. Maybe he was lonely. I guess we may never really know. But of one thing I am sure. Shorty's life here on earth was as good as they come. He was well taken care of, well loved, and he will never be forgotten. He was a happy little guy and even showed it with a special doggie 'grin'. If you got a 'grin', well, you knew you were okay in Shorty's book. Shorty, you were okay in our book too, and we will miss you.

“You can shed tears that he is gone,

or you can smile because he has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that he’ll come back,

or you can open your eyes and see all he’s left.

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him,

or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,

or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember him only that he is gone,

or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind,

be empty and turn your back.

or you can do what he’d want:

smile, open your eyes, love and go on.” – David Harkins

The Epidemic

You may recall that awhile back I took a truck ride. In case you forgot, you can read about it here. Anyway, guess what? Lucky me. Today I got to take another truck ride. Why, you ask? Well, it's like this. I continue to be lopsided and the goatmother is a consummate worrier. It's as simple as that. The bad news is I've lost my spidey sense. The good news I'm not alone.

I know. That doesn't make any sense, but it would appear that the vet's office had another goat just this morning, with the very same *affliction*. Now how coincidental is that? The fact is that this was no coincidence. It is my belief that this is a case of alien abduction. I don't know about that other goat, but I remember, or maybe I don't, losing track of several hours a couple of months ago. And I have vague flashbacks of probey things. And not being able to breathe (or was that Boo rolling over on me in the night?) At any rate, something strange is going on here. Two goats with the same affliction in one day? I don't think so!

The vet thought it might help to receive something called a' hair-moan' injection. I don't know about you, but I've never heard a hair moan and I certainly think one would tend to notice such a thing. Anyway, it was decided that this would not be a successful method of dealing with the problem, and the goatmother was told to just take a 'wait and see' attitude. Wait and see? 'Wait' for and 'see' what, for goats' sake??? Oy. As for me, I'm going to wait and see all right, but you can rest assured it will be with one eye open for anything green, glowing or pulsating. In the meantime, I shall be practicing. "Klaatu barada nikto ... Klaatu barada nikto ... Klaatu barada nikto!, darn it!"

The Soirée

This is the farm that is behind us. Or maybe it is in front of us. As with many things in life, I suppose it all depends on your perspective. Anyway, I fail to see how they can call this a farm because they don't have any goats. Not even one. How is that possible? They have lots of equipment, maybe even every mechanical farm kind of vehicle and machine ever invented, but they just don't have any goats. They have large and stinky cows, they have crap-of-dawn crowing roosters, but there are undeniably NO goats anywhere. Irregardless, they refer to themselves as a 'farm'.

Now, every year, on the Labor Day weekend, this farm has a very large party. It is, in fact, such a large party that they invite literally everyone and have to resort to parking all of the vehicles in the pasture. (Just imagine how that smooshes all the nice eating grass, which by rights, belongs to the stinky cows.) Of course I take a bit of issue with this whole party idea because I don't think they have ever thought to extend an invitation to any goat whatsoever. I happen to think this is blatantly discriminatory. After all, the stinky cows are allowed to attend aren't they? And I hear barking over there, so I KNOW dogs are invited.

Anyhow, this year was the 100th anniversary of the farm, so you can imagine that this year's soirée was bigger and better than any of its predecessors. Whooping and hollering could be heard an entire day before the festivities, not to mention the revving of engines and blowing of industrial-sized horns. Truly it was enough to disturb one's rumination, both the philosophical and the stomach kind. It was all rather difficult to 'digest', one way or the other. I mean when goats celebrate, there is just a lot of polite head-butting and perhaps a few cheerful bleats to complement, but never anything so loud and gauche. As a matter of fact, the band hired for the evening dance was SO loud we could have had the dance ourselves. "I've got friends in looow places ... " Well, I've got friends that go down the hill too, but you don't find me singing about it. No siree, Bob! Goats have class, and couth. We are thankfully civilized, for goats' sake! Oy.

Anyway, we did manage to get a bit of sleep that night - after the music and the all-terrain-vehicle races were over. I suppose one should remember what Desiderius Erasmus said, " No party is any fun unless seasoned with Folly." I wonder which of those farm people is named Folly, and if he'd even consider inviting the goats next year? After all, it has also been said, " Nothing makes you more tolerant of a neighbor's noisy party than being there." - Franklin P. Jones.

In The News

"BANGOR, Maine — Authorities say a car rammed into the security gate outside Stephen King's home in Maine ... 25-year-old Renee Harris of Alton told police that an oncoming car veered into her lane about 9 a.m. Sunday. She swerved and crashed into the custom-made black iron fence ... No one was injured and the other *car* was not at the scene when police arrived. "

Was it a car? Was it, perhaps, a bird? A dark object swooping past the window of an unsuspecting driver who *may* have mistaken it for another vehicle?

Do we actually know where a certain dim-witted, life-challenged, sickly green individual was on that date?

Oy boy.