Tag Archives: goat

1782. Developing varieties of sweet pea

Dermot’s neighbour had a pet goat. The goat kept jumping over the fence.

Dermot was an enthusiastic gardener. In fact, Dermot was famous throughout the land for the developing of new varieties of sweet peas. Each variety, both in colour and shape, would take several years. There were four of Dermot’s sweet pea varieties available in the shops. The most popular one was called Night Knight. It was a beautiful navy blue.

One time the neighbour’s goat got over the fence and nibbled on one of Dermot’s sweet peas. It put back the development of that variety of sweet pea by several months. Luckily Dermot caught the goat in time, but he gave a warning to the neighbour.

“I earn my living growing sweet peas, so please ensure your goat stays on your side of the fence.”

Anyway, I forgot to mention; Dermot’s wife is an excellent cook. Tonight they’re having grilled goat chops with garlic, oregano and lemon.

1775. Life’s not a bed of roses

Some think the life of a goat is easy; especially the life of a billy goat. They think that all I do all day is stand around and eat grass. Well that’s certainly not the case.

I am the sole male in a herd of forty or so milking goats. Don’t you think that keeps me busy enough? A while back, it seems like yesterday, I butted a troll hiding under a bridge. I butted him to smithereens. Do you think I enjoyed having to do such a thing? Well, I did actually. So there!

Only yesterday, Constantia, the most productive of all the goats, went and ate a shirt hanging on the farmer’s clothes line. How selfish is that? It was the only garment available and she kept it all to herself.

To make up for it, this morning I went and had a good feed of the farmer’s roses. The red roses were the tastiest, followed by the white. I didn’t find the yellow particularly appealing but to each their own.

The farmer’s wife has just announced that I’m going to the abattoir. I suppose that’s a fancy French word for some tourist resort where they have petting animals for children. Or maybe it’s simply a lush new pasture. New horizons, that’s what I’m hoping for! Who knows what it might be? The farmer’s wife is such a snob.

1613. A cat called Mopsie

You see that back door? It’s got a hole in it for a cat door. That was for Old Nanny Higginbotham’s cat. As you can see, she doesn’t live there anymore – Old Nanny Higginbotham – she moved out when the house half burned down and was bulldozed except for the kitchen and backdoor. I have no idea why they didn’t finish the job.

The cat’s dead, one suspects.

No one can remember when and why they started calling her Old Nanny Higginbotham. It began maybe fifty years ago when she was neither old nor a grandmother. She must be well into her eighties now. She called her cat Mopsie.

Mopsie was a tabby cat. It seems like it was always part of Old Nanny Higginbotham’s life although cats don’t live that long; fifteen years or so if you’re lucky. That cat was the only friend the old lady had. She seemed to have no family. Neighbours regarded her as cold and aloof. She wasn’t born for friendship that’s for sure; unless you’re thinking of her Mopsie. Mopsie certainly was her life.

The old lady milked a few goats. That might be why she was called Nanny. Even in her eighties she was out there milking her little herd. The goats were taken away after the fire, and Old Nanny Higginbotham was put into a retirement village. She didn’t want to leave her goats and farm of course, but the government welfare agency insisted. The retirement village wouldn’t let her bring the cat.

One afternoon (it was quite against the retirement village’s rules and regulations) Old Nanny Higginbotham took a taxi to her old bulldozed house. She called over and over: “Here kitty kitty kitty! Here pussy cat! Mopsie! Mopsie!” There was no answer. She put some cat food next to where the cat door had been. “Here kitty kitty kitty! Mopsie! Mopsie!”

Hours later, when it was dark, they found her still sitting on the backdoor step. Crying.

1570. Acting the goat

(The closing sentence for this story was suggested by Pleasant Street!)

They say the devil sometimes takes on the guise of a goat. Kristian knew this with certitude. He had been driving along a lonely country road at night when he stopped to pick up an apparently lost hitchhiker.

“Where are you heading?” asked Kristian.

“Anywhere where there’s a roof over my head,” said the hitchhiker.

The hitchhiker got into the car. As he drove along, Kristian noticed something strange; his passenger wasn’t wearing shoes and had cloven hoofs. Gradually the passenger changed into the entire aspect of a goat.

“I’m letting you out here,” said Kristian, bringing his car to a stop.

“No you’re not,” said the goat. “I’m coming home with you.”

Upon arriving home, Kristian’s wife, Karen, was beside herself. “We don’t want another pet. Where did you get this hideous creature from?” Kristian sensed that the goat didn’t like Karen very much. But the goat was there to stay.

Over the next several years the goat became a major attraction in the village; after all, they make lovely pets. Little children would bring it treats. People passing by couldn’t resist giving it a pat. The goat grew to be more and more popular. Then it became an obsession with the townsfolk. Before you knew it, a rumour began that the goat was obsessively attractive because Karen was a witch; a real witch who should be burned at the stake.

Karen knew it was either going to be her or the goat, and the townspeople seemed to be cheering for the goat.

1358. Nothing ventured, nothing gained

Thousands of years ago, in faraway Poland, Agnieszka milked a sheep and made some cheese. It developed over the years and became a classic cheese throughout the world.

Thousands of years ago, in faraway Holland, Veerletje milked a goat and made some cheese. It developed over the years and became a classic cheese throughout the world.

Thousands of years ago, in faraway Mexico, Acuecucyoticihuati milked a llama and made some cheese. It developed over the years and became a classic cheese throughout the world.

Thousands of years ago, in faraway Latvia, Ludmila milked a cow and made some cheese. Quite frankly, it was disgusting. It never became a classic and Ludmila’s husband fed it to his pigs.

1292. Life on the little farm

Betty once went to stay for a few days with her good friend Gustave. They had been friends for over thirty years. They had attended each other’s weddings, and now both spouses had passed away.

Gustave lived on a little farm. He had a few chickens, a cow, two sheep and a goat. As well as that he had a wonderful orchard and a gorgeous flower garden.

“The break from city life will do you good,” said Gustave. “And there’s plenty to do during the day while I’m away at work.”

Betty thought it a marvellous idea. On her first day on the farm she thought she would make herself useful by doing the laundry. She washed the pile of clothes and hung them on the line to dry. The goat came along and shredded the clothes he didn’t eat.

Gustave came home and:

(Please decide on the correct ending)

1. They laughed and laughed. Never had such laughter been heard on the little farm for many a year.
2. Gustave was furious. They haven’t spoken to each other since.

800. They’re away today

(No audio today!)

My Master is away today and it is meant to be the 800th story on the 800th day. We really can’t let the occasion go by without a commemoration of some sort. Usually I’m not allowed near the computer, but since no one is here, I shall step in and take charge.

My name is Delia. I am a dog. It’s certainly a dog’s life, and I seem to be the dog’s body around here.

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The first thing I did this morning was to jump into a proper bed and have a sleep-in. Normally I’m not allowed anywhere near the bed, let alone under the blankets.

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The next thing I did was to get Jeeves (he’s the butler) to drive me around the farm. There are so many animals to keep in order.

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When I got back it was time for my walk. I don’t know how they managed to arrange it but somehow the Pope took me, as you can see from the picture. The crowds were phenomenal.

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Then of course it was time to eat, so the cat said grace first (she is such a hypocrite). She did it obviously because the Pope was there. She never usually bothers.

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And then (you won’t believe this) after eating she pretended to read the Bible.

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Of course, the Pope told us to be nice to everyone, so I’ve been trying. First with the silly old cow.

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And then with her silly old calf.

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And finally with the silly old stuffed toy. I’m sick of kissing everyone.

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I’m not going to be nice to the goat. He’s a bit of an old devil.

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Hark! (or rather, Bark!) I hear a car! They’re arriving back home! I shall hastily press the post button for all of this. The cat and I shall sit on the veranda and look innocent.

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We haven’t done a thing all day. We’ve been so good. Have a nice day one and all!