The Presage

Foreboding. That's an interesting word. One which you may only use in the company of other nerdy people. And in accordance with my custom in this sort of situation, I checked the Reader's Digest "Complete Wordfinder", on page 583:

foreboding /n. an expectation of trouble or evil; a presage or omen. 

Yes, that is what it was. I had experienced a foreboding. A presage, if you like. It happened this morning just after seven, during my awakening ritual. 

Perhaps a short(ish) explanation would help here.

Part of our little patch of the valley in Reikorangi is a very steep incline, extending from the main lawn down to the western boundary in the shape of a rectangle about 50 metres by 40 metres -- the size of a respectable residential erf in town. Along the top end of this hill is a strong wooden fence, with a sturdy gate. From one top corner to the opposite bottom corner runs a wide diagonal pathway, which is flanked by wild fern and other low-growing vegetation - quite natural, almost wilderness-y. 

The lower quarter of the land is home to a "mini-forest" of, maybe, about twenty tall native trees. This mini-forest grows in a way which makes it impossible for the casual observer standing at the top fence to see into its interior. The height of the gate and fence above the mini-forest is, at a rough guess, about 24.8 metres -- let's say about 8 storeys of a city building. Or maybe 6, I don't know. Anyway, let's just agree that it quite a long way down.   

This chunk of land is called Goat Hill - not officially on any survey map. No, just by us. Because it is the home of a goat. A refugee goat, a (fairly useless) male goat without the milking capabilities like those of his female compatriots. So, we have named and re-named him (Jean-Paul Goatier), and have conferred refugee status on him, thereby protecting him from the curry pot.

You can probably see where this is going. Regarding what this has to do with foreboding thing.

Oh. Alright, perhaps you can't.  

But tarry anon. Or, as Shakespeare would have put it, hang in there, mate. We'll get down to brass tacks shortly. I'm actually padding out the description of an event which took, probably, milli-seconds, into a full-length novel. That's what my English Mistress at school would have ruled, when marking our essays.

There. We've now tarried enough. Back to the presage.

As I customarily do, I went down to Goat Hill shortly after seven with a serving of "Goat Breakfast" - actually standard balanced and nutritional pellets for ruminants. I expected to find Jean-Paul eagerly waiting at the goat as usual. 

Today was different. He was not there. He was not in his refugee accommodation (his hut) either. Clearly the most probable explanation was that he had already gone down the hill to the lower bramble vines near the mini-forest for a pre-breakfast chomp.

Or had he? 

I banged the empty metal feeding bowl on the fence, like a dinner gong, my usual practice. Nothing. No bleat, no m-a-a-a , no b-a-a-a. I rang the breakfast gong once more, this time a little longer. Again nothing.

There, we've tarried enough, and had the 'anon' bit as well. 

Enter the presage, the foreboding. [dum dum dum, ominously...]

Had Jean-Paul fallen and possibly broken his hip? Had he perhaps shuffled off his mortal coil and gone to meet his maker? But wait... listen carefully.

Sure enough, a crackled m-a-a-a came floating up from the depths of the mini-forest. Then the Sotto Voce slowly increased in pitch and volume. Moments later, you'd have sworn that a herd of goats on steroids had discovered the hill, and that free goat kibble was available for the grabbing. 

M-a-a-a,   B-a-a-a,  M-a-a-a!

Like that legendary Red Rum Grand National winner, Jean-Paul came hurtling up the steep incline at top speed, faster than Usain Bolt could ever dream of...  He was in high spirits, almost lilting in his stride (if goat are capable of lilting, that is), and kicking up his hind legs out of sync, as if Goat kibble is the best thing that can happen to a refugee goat...

I suppose it might be just that. I have never spoken to any other goat refugees before.

Jean-Paul arrived and started gobbling his breakfast between snorts of heavy breathing.

I gave him an extra pat this morning. I would have hated to have been tasked with extricating him from some steep edge where he'd accidentally hung himself.. or something like that. 

Moreover, I was ever so pleased that my presage had been a false alarm non-presage.