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The Funny Farm
by Robin Gordon


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A Goat Named Root Beer

Since our hogs were gone and we had a good-sized piece of land fenced, and I was tired of weed eating the lot, Danny decided we needed a goat. Our search led us to “The goat lady.” We purchased a weathered La Mancha named Root Beer that was brown with a black stripe down his back, and short, white powder colored ears.


Root Beer was as cute as goats can be! At first, we would walk him around on a dog leash wherever we went in the yard, since he was figuring out how to get out of the fence. Goats are smart that way. We ended up purchasing a bell and putting it on his neck, so we would know exactly where he was. We would take Levi down to the creek and swim, and Root Beer would tag along.


On one occasion, my brother Sam was down at the creek with us, and he thought it would be funny to throw Root Beer in the creek. When Sam threw the goat, he slipped and also fell in the creek. Sam ended up getting cut on a piece of glass and had to get stitches. All because Root Beer wanted to play.


As our goat got bigger, we decided it was time for him to stay fenced in. One time, Root Beer got out of the fence, and he jumped right on the hood of my parents’ new car. He didn’t do any damage to their Olds, but my mom was going nuts. I thought it was hilarious; I mean, Root Beer looked like a marionette, and my mom is screaming at the goat, and I am laughing my head off.

If a hill too steep for a goat it can still be climbed
by a four wheeler, or so old Root Beer thought.


During a Memorial Day get together, our family from Ohio had come to visit. While playing volleyball, we heard Maaaaahhhh! Root Beer had gotten himself caught in the fence. Danny ran up to the building and shut off the electric; then, he had to get the goat loose from the fence. After that, Root Beer kept his distance.


Since the goat wasn’t cleaning up the area as well as I thought he should, I decided I had better do some weed eating. I started cutting the grass and the goat is following me, and eating the clippings--and it seemed like the more he ate, the more he belched, and goats sure do burp a lot.


In the goat lot, there was a large boulder that we called Root Beer’s rock, since he loved standing on it. Levi would go in the lot and jump on the rock, and Root Beer would rear up with his head cocked to the side and butt Levi off the rock. Goats have hard heads.


Root Beer favored women. As he got older, I couldn’t turn my back. If I did, the next thing I knew is that his hooves would be on my shoulders, and boy would that hurt. Danny and Levi thought that was hilarious. Something is always funny, if it isn’t you.


We had other goats, but none as memorable as good old Root Beer.


Next time: Chickens, Chickens, and More Chickens.


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