The Goat

  But now that the trucks arrived there was a bigger problem. The animals were now more tired than hungry and were not loading onto the trucks when tempted by food. The men instead had to round the animals up by hand and lead them to the gate. Since the goats and cows were still mixed they settled on loading the cows first. If the goats tried to climb the ramp they were simply tossed off. It was going to be a long night.

  ~~~~~~

  Back at the tree line, on a small crest, Frank was perched on his haunches trying to spot where his friend had gone. He had watched the animal enter the herd, seen the goat make his escape to the barn and had seen the farmhand that followed him in. Some time had passed and neither had emerged.

  Frank did not want to go, he did not want to get caught or killed. Sparky was a fool to rush down there and now he was probably dead. Frank liked his new friend and didn’t want to lose him, but his paws were frozen in place.

  His bleakest memories emerged from the back of his mind. The dark face of the man that tortured him, and the others. The others he left behind when he ran. Those he couldn’t save. He knew better than to risk himself foolishly. Sadly, Sparky did not.

  His eyes stayed focused on the door of the barn as the farmer emerged carrying something. Frank couldn’t tell what it was. It was covered by a silver blanket.

  Sparky!

  It was too late, his friend was already gone.

  Frank buried his head in his paws. Working himself down from the tears that were fighting to be free. He lifted his head and watched the killer in the blue cap. It was very hard to see him. The fence was occluding the spotlights. He waited anxiously trying to confirm the goat’s lifeless mass was indeed in the man’s arms. It struck him that something about the scene was out of place.

  As the farmer walked around the back of the pen, Frank realized that whatever the man had it was not the goat. Sparky must have hid. Frank would wait until the man passed and then check the barn.

  The man stopped at the back of the fence and he set down his bundle.

  Frank watched impatiently, wanting to hurry and check on his friend. But the man didn’t continue to walk; he dropped down and was fumbling with the package.

  From beneath the hat an odd shape stuck upward, too solid to be ears. The man must have horns. But men don’t commonly have horns. Sparky!

  Sparky hoisted the cord to the chainsaw. The sound shattered the animal chatter and startled the animals. The mighty saw came to life; Sparky settled his grip on the handle and immediately turned and started on the fence. The goats and cows were bouncing around in the pen.

  Frank saw the farmers by the loading dock start over. Whatever trouble Sparky had avoided with the one man, he would not be so lucky with the group.

  Sparky sawed down through the posts as quickly as he could. He had cut through the first side when the first man rounded the corner of the fence. He started on the next side and the top post dropped. It fell in and rolled along the soft ground of the pen. The next one followed.

  The other men were around him now, not recognizing his true animal identity for all the shadows and confusion.

  “What are you doing, Ted?”

  Sparky continued until all the poles were cut. The farmers were surrounding him, but not moving in.

  The saw dropped. Sparky had made his opening. The animals were all huddled on the far side of the pen. He turned and viewed the men around him.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “What the hell is it?”

  Sparky held his ground.

  “Ted, is that you?”

  Sparky remained calmly in his place. One of the farmers approached cautiously and placed his hand on the animal’s shoulder. It was quickly slapped away.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s Ted.”

  “Kick its ass! Son’ bitch stole my overalls!” Ted emerged from the barn, waving his fists and shivering from the cold air. Revenge burned in his eyes.

  The group turned at the sound of the yelling man wearing only his briefs.

  “Get him boys!”

  The group started to collapse on Sparky; surrounding him from all sides. He couldn’t run away. The animals weren’t free. They were now crowded even more closely to the loading ramps. He was their only hope.

  Sparky dropped on all fours and charged the closest man jabbing him with his horns. The man fell back in pain as others dove in, tackling Sparky and wrestling him to the ground. Four men restrained him each holding one appendage.

  “What the hell is it?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s about to be dead!”

  “Get that chainsaw over here, we’ll teach this critter what we really use it for.”

  Sparky struggled but couldn’t break the hold. He strained his neck and watched as Ted secured the chainsaw from the ground and yanked the cord. The hungry sound of the saw again filled the air. Ted waved the chainsaw as he stepped forward.

  “You messed with the wrong set of overalls!”

  He swung the chainsaw.

  “Wait!” Sparky yelled.

  The man stopped, the saw was just inches from his target.

  “If you kill me, you’ll ruin your overalls!”

  The men stood momentarily awed that the animal was speaking.

  “God, damn thing’s right!” Ted said looking to the others. “Strip ‘em!”

  The men carefully held Sparky as others worked to remove his stolen outfit. Ted slipped on his overalls at once and quickly returned to the chainsaw. The machine still purred, its motor warm and ready.

  “Anything else?”

  Sparky was at a loss. He couldn’t break the hold they had on him. Ted looked at the other men, and then back at him.

  He swung the mechanized saw, cleaving downward. Halfway into his swing he winced in pain and the saw went free of his hands, tumbling end over end. Attached to his leg was a very ferocious looking Belgian Groenendael.

  The butt of the saw collided with one of the men restraining Sparky, knocking that man to the ground. Sparky swung his newly freed hoof into the man holding his other arm, blasting him in the eye. The man retreated screaming. Sparky sprang, shaking the other two farm hands off his legs. He kicked and clawed, forging an opening and emerging from their circle.

  Frank pounced on Ted as he lay the ground, slashing at his face. Ted screamed. His skin torn by the dog's claws. Blood seeped down his cheek. Frank stayed on top, growling, then unleashed a low bark.

  Sparky turned around seeing the canine holding his position. Another man dove for Frank, trying to remove the dog from his ally. Sparky rushed over. The goat charged on all fours, ramming the man. The strike hit right on the man's backbone. He collapsed onto Frank. The dog belted out a string of curses.

  The man rolled off, collapsing to the ground. He reached to his side where a small bloodspot formed on his overalls.

  “Lookout!” Frank yelled.

  Sparky turned to see two of the men rushing at him, arms out. Sparky ducked down. The men stumbled past. The goat leapt toward them. He pounced on one of the men, knocking him to the ground. Sparky threw his hoof into the fallen man’s neck. The man yelped.

  Sparky turned his head to the other man. He was a younger man, with a firm set of arms. The farmhand had his fists circling in front of him. Sparky raised his forelimbs to match and flashed his teeth. The man cried out. The farmhand turned and ran.

  Sparky turned his attention to the other men who had surrounding Frank. Sparky scooped up one of the fallen fence posts and hoisted it over his shoulder. He swung the timber around swiftly, hitting another man in the shoulder. The cracking of bone made an audible crunch. The man fell. He writhed in place, pulling at his shoulder with his free hand and yelling.

  The four remaining men turned to see Sparky holding the massive beam. The men turned to each other and then to Sparky.

  Ted was among them. “You won’t get away with this!” He charged.

  Sparky swung the post like a bat, striking Ted for a
home run. Ted crashed into the fence and slid down to the ground. Ted didn’t stand back up.

  The other farmers stood speechless, staring at the armed goat.

  Sparky hoisted the beam and started walking at them steadily. The three men broke from their place and ran away toward the trucks. The other conscious men on the ground, climbed to their feet, and hurried after.

  Sparky and Frank watched the men flee into the distance.

  Chapter 45

  “This is Basil.”

  “How’s the road out there, Bah-sil!” Frito's voice broke up over the cell speaker.

  "You better have something to be calling me.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect that you would be sleeping at this point. I figured you needed a little straw to chew on.”

  “Frita, I’m getting tired of the goat jokes. Now do you have something or not, damn it?”

  “Oh, I do. But you sound tired and grumpy. Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow, when you’re feeling nicer.”

  “Okay, Frita, I’m sorry. It’s late. I’ve been on the road for a while and just don’t feel good. The coffee is eating at my stomach and I just got some fries that didn’t settle well.” Basil spoke softly.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m almost to Ontario. I just got through speaking with that patrolman, he wasn’t helpful.”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He’s no help. He truly believes that what he saw was purely in his mind. Can you believe that?”

  “Yes. The better question is why don't you?” Frita said.

  There was a pause, she probably wanted an answer. Basil took another sip of his cold coffee as he peeked down at the phone to make sure the line was still active.

  Frita gave in, "So no new details on your were-goat?"

  “He doesn’t even have the vehicle plate, he threw out everything. You know he’s going to quit the force and join up with the VSO?” The now former policeman had talked Basil's ear off in great detail about his changeover from crime fighting to humanitarian aid.

  “Look, not everybody thinks goats can talk. Maybe you should take a hint.”

  “He thinks it’s some old drug trip coming back to haunt him or a sign from God, but totally useless either way.”

  “You weren’t heavy into drugs in college were you, Basil?”

  “Apparently, I didn’t do enough. They still let me join the CBI didn’t they?” He sighed, sipping again at the bitter coffee beside him. “What do you have, Frita?”

  “Well, initial reports say an animal rights activist just attacked a group of farm hands trying to get some animals loaded onto trailers. The local police have been called to the scene but I put a hold on them.”

  “Let me guess, the attacker fits the description of a man in a goat suit?”

  “Not only that, but he has a dog with him. It’s definitely our guy.”

  “Our goat, Frita.”

  “Whatever, Basil. You bring him in handcuffs and we’ll get the DNA proof on what this thing is.”

  “Where am I headed?” Basil looked over, noting the sign welcoming him to Ontario.

  He scribbled down the directions on his notepad as he drove, just after the notes from the conversation with the patrolman.

  “You know he’s going to get his name changed to Flower Petal tomorrow?” Basil recounted.

  “What?” Frita had forgotten about the cop.

  “Never mind. Send in the troops, have them tear that place apart. Let them know to be careful with any goats in they find. And give me their number,” he scribbled it down on the pad as she spoke, careful to keep a knee on the wheel.

  Basil flipped the phone closed and chucked the pad into the passenger’s seat. He slid down in his chair and yawned.

  Just after midnight.

  He couldn’t recall if he had changed time zones yet or not. He had driven from the central office since earlier in the afternoon, hoping to catch up with the were-goat right away. It had been a longer drive than he expected. A little more coffee would be in order, but first he had to reach the scene.

  He dialed the local police.

  “This is Special Agent Lain, let me speak to the man in charge.”

  The local police would have this wrapped up before he got there. He would have his were-goat. His glory. Not only for running down this elusive critter, but also for discovering the greatest aberration in human history. The Noble Prize would be in order.

  “Dis em Jeb.”

  Chapter 46

  Frank joyfully followed his companion about the animal pens. Sparky moved deliberately to herd the animals free of their prisons after having used the chainsaw to take down the other barriers. Most of the animals were quick to exit, but a few stragglers needed extra motivation.

  To Frank, it was hardly a celebration of their victory. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “It’s just the way I fight. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I couldn’t let them steal anymore families.”

  “They’ll get the police. They’ll be coming after you.”

  “Didn’t you see the news at that coffee shop? The police are already looking for me.” Sparky's voice trailed off, the adrenaline and the caffeine were both waning.

  “Well, this definitely won’t help our cause.”

  “What cause, Frank?” Sparky stopped and squared off with the canine. “I’m a talking goat, a talking goat that just wants to find his family. If I happen to help a few goats or cows or pigs,” he clapped his hands behind a larger sow, the animal scurried almost plowing over Frank. “Is that a cause?”

  “We need to get a move on,” Frank said. In the distance he could hear the approaching cars.

  Sparky continued to route the remaining animals as if he hadn't heard or more likely, Frank presumed, he didn't care to leave any one behind.

  Frank pitched in and helped where he could, knowing that the goat wouldn’t leave the job half done. He wasn’t trained to corral anything, but he had seen that movie where that tiny pig did it. Frank knew that anything a pig could do, a dog could do better.

  “You pitching in to this cause now?” Sparky laughed.

  “Don't forget who rescued you, I did my part. Besides, the police are getting closer. I don’t want us to be here when they arrive.”

  “Worried about me?”

  Frank looked at Sparky and then went back to chasing a smaller goat toward the opening in the fence. It was the last penned animal.

  Sparky glared his teeth at the dog, “I knew you had feelings for me, it’s my animal magnetism.”

  “Right,” Frank responded, it took him a moment to recognize Sparky's expression as a smile. “When did you become a comedian?”

  “I saw it on a bumper sticker while you were sleeping.”

  “Well, it has been a long time since anyone bought me a cold beer,” the dog sighed, running after the stray goat, finally clearing him from the cage.

  “Maybe I’ll get you another one when we’re through here.”

  “Really?”

  “I said maybe.”

  Sparky picked up the chainsaw from the ground and surveyed the herd. He struck up the loud device and cranked the trigger a few times. As expected, the animals ran away from the saw, the fence, and the barn.

  “You think they’ll just get rounded back up?”

  “Some of them won’t,” Sparky said. “I hope.”

  The two hurried their way back through the woods. As they reached the fence again and Frank braced himself to be thrown over, Sparky brandished the bolt cutters. Frank sighed with relief. After making short work of the fence, they loaded back into their pickup and started back to the freeway.

  ~~~~~~

  Within minutes of their departure, a dozen squad cars had lined driveway by the loading area, surrounding the abandoned trucks. The bright lights set up earlier by the farmers to support their loading illuminated the empty pens in the dark hours of early morning. A swarm of local deputies we
re crawling through the scene, attempting to find any trace of the assailant.

  Sheriff Jeb Jenkins pulled up behind the other units. The tall, narrow man stepped out of his squad car. He surveyed the area while chewing on a mouthful of his homegrown tobacco. One of the deputies walked up to Jeb and handed him a flashlight and two latex gloves. The sheriff pulled them over his hands and spit some of the juice from his mouth.

  “Wat yiz got sez fer?” Jeb asked his underling.

  “We just got here, sir. We haven't found any sign of the attacker.”

  “Why fer? Yiz ain’t cut nufin’? Dag-gun!” Jeb spit another wad from his inflated cheek. “Git-goun!”

  The officer joined the others already spread out through the pens and the barn. There wasn’t much to be found, besides an abandoned chainsaw, they'd take it for prints. It was what the men referred to as a dry scene.

  Bartlett Hoover didn’t need any clues to know that the goat had been there. He could tell that many goats had been there, but finding which one was not going to be easy. The Basset Hound belonged to a sheriff Jeb and although he wasn’t an official member of the force, he was always welcome at the scene. Jeb let him loose from the car to join in the investigation, handing his leash to Deputy Darrell.

  Bartlett kept his eyes sharp and his nose to the dirt. The hound made his way about the circus of men. Men who were oblivious to the clearest clues left behind by the goat and his cohort. It was the especially the latter that gave them away. When the Basset caught scent of the Groenendael his trained instincts kicked in.

  The little dog caused quite a stir. Barking and bouncing, signaling his find.

  “Shut tar nat tis lip! Wherf dat tar-pick snuffin?”

  “You think he smells the man’s trail,” said Deputy Darrell, who was holding tightly on the leash.

  “Right-zo-frig a nag! Tern dat dem oot!” Jeb commanded.

  The man did as he was told and set the dog free. The hound raced into the woods. Deputy Darrell followed him to the best of his ability.

  Bartlett was happily panting as the man arrived at the fence. Behind the dog was a large hole in the fence, and a dropped pair of bolt cutters.

  The deputy stepped through the opening and looked around. As he made his way out onto the roadside, he flashed his light around in the darkness. On the far side of the road his light flashed against something on the black asphalt.

  Deputy Darrell stepped over and picked up the object. In his hands was a half eaten bag of Colombian roast.