Always In Your Face

This morning as I walking down towards the Goat-Hill to greet billy goat Jacko, and to enquire after his health following the night of serious frost, I happened to notice a number of small daisy patches scattered over outlying parts of the lawn.

As the word “goat” was relatively uppermost in my mind at the time, I thought back to Beebs (the Late Justin Bieber and goat-mate to Jacko), who had died almost two months ago and was buried in our ‘pet cemetery’ at the bottom of Goat-Hill. This in turn, led to the phrase ‘pushing up daisies’

My heart skipped a heart beat. Last night the temperature was similar to 4 July 2014, the fateful icy night when Beebs succumbed on account of… unknown factors, but the extreme cold may well have been a factor.  Now I don’t like being a Prophet of Doom, but I did start worrying a  bit about Jacko at that partiular moment. I tiptoed up to the fence and peered down the steep embankment to the cemetery area some fifty metres away.

A short distance from the dog-grave mound which marks the spot where Beebs was buried, stood the black and white Jacko, cropping on the short grass. He was visiting his mate, and having a bit of a wake. As all good goats do.

(Above); At that instant, Jacko swung his head around and upwards, looking me straight in the eye. I froze, not wanting to start up a conversation. He stood like a statue, staring back. This was going to be a game chicken. Chicken or Goat?

I stepped back gingerly, not showing any sort of reaction or motion, pretending to be stationary. He stood still. I took another step backwards, then another, and one more. A quick one, and I was no longer in his view from the bottom of the incline.

Then I heard the maaa-maaa as he started racing up the hill, hell-bent on starting one of his conversations. Out of the corner, I see a nasty-looking dark streak running down the side of his face, almost as if he’s damaged his eye area and has resulted in a haemorrhage. All I need is having to coax this character into the back of the Toyota to visit the vet, or even worse, a goat-ophthalmologist. Do you get such a person? 

The maa-maaa is still audible as I trot to the fodder store (actually the tractor garage, but it sounds more posh to refer to it as their fodder bunker). I’m sure, bung eye or not, Jacko will welcome a gutful of hay, hey?

(Above): When I returned with a generous armful helping of hay, you cannot imagine my relief at finding that his so-called “haemorrhage” is really simply the colouration of the growth of his hair along the left side of his face. (see the red line I’ve drawn on the photo).

As I hand the grateful goat his chow, I almost feel like giving a huge hug of relief, but (over my shoulder) one of the builder men may be watching me. We stand face to face, Jacko with a mouthful of hay and me with a throat full of relief. Let’s face it, this character has a face to remember.