“Hey Janet, do you want a goat?”
This is not the most unusual question I’ve received from friends, so I asked, “Is it male or female?”
“I don’t know. A man just stopped by here and asked if we wanted a goat. But we don’t do goats. I told him that I knew a goat lady though.”
I laughed and asked, “is it a pygmy or dwarf? Daddy’s looking for a new billy, but it needs to be miniature.”
“No, but the man’s name is Billy.”
At that moment I lost it and burst out laughing. She texted me the phone number for “Billy the Goat Man” and I left a message, “Hi, this is Janet, a friend gave me your number about a goat. Please give me a call.”
A few hours later, Billy returned my call, “This is Billy, you called about my goat?”
I replied, “Yes sir, is it a male or a female? And is it a pygmy?”
He said, “well, it’s a medium-sized brown ram goat.”
At this moment, I stopped myself from explaining that rams are sheep. Instead, I said, “well, if it comes to our place, he will be neutered and live a nice long life.”
He asked, “you gonna eat him?”
Shocked, I replied, “no sir, we don’t eat goats, they’re livestock and pasture control.”
“Oh, well, ain’t that what you do? You raise goats, sell them, kill them and eat them? I ain’t never tasted goat before, and I wanted to see what it tasted like.”
I said, “that’s what some people do, but I don’t eat goat. Are you looking to sell your goat for meat?”
He said, “I ain’t wanting to sell him. He ain’t much trouble. I wanted to see if you were gonna eat him.”
At this point, I stood looking at the phone in my hand, on the steps of the church, and I replied, “tell ya what, I’ll ask a few folks and see if I can find someone looking to eat a goat. And I’ll get back with you.”
He thanked me and hung up. I shook my head in disbelief. I actually had a discussion about a goat, with someone not concerned about making sure that their little precious horned-animal would go to a nice farm and live out its days in a pasture.
I finished at the meeting and headed home to cut cane for the goats and to finish chores. Sure enough, I found someone interested in a goat-roast.
I called her that night, “Sobrina, do you a goat?” She replied, “A goat? Well, we were talking the other day about a goat roast.”
I said, “well, Billy wants to know how it tastes, so will you promise me that you’ll share your goat with him?”
She replied, “His name is Billy?!”
“Yes. Promise me.”
Apparently, this type of wheeling and dealing is not as common as it used to be. But the way that I see it, if I can help Billy to find a short-term home for his goat and it gives him an opportunity to share a meal of goat meat that he raised, then that’s the way it is. She’s calling him tomorrow. Billy may get his wish.
On Saturday, we picked up a pygmy goat named Steve; a small male who can grow into buckhood and live out his days as a stud in a pasture full of nanny goats at Daddy’s.
I guess this makes me a goat broker. Bringing people together, one gruff at a time.
Raised By A Village 