Goats

When I was a young man in Western Kentucky my grandparents, not unlike many of my friends who are from the rural south, lived down the street from a goat farm. The narrow, one lane road that we drove to and from Nanny and Pops house was about a 10 mile drive from civilization (if you call Paducah civilization) and it was filled with 10 miles of exciting sites. Uncle Boone whittling on his porch, the flooded creeks of "The Bottoms", the last liquor stores and dance halls before the county line, the corn fields, the tobacco fields, tobacco barns and of course, my favorite, the goat farm.

The goats at this farm looked like other goats except for the fact that these little fellas were extra special. Special in the fact that they fainted when they heard a loud noise. I said, they fainted when they heard a noise (sorry, when I talk about my grandparents I tend to repeat myself 2-3 times- it's a family thing not a hearing impairment thing). I could see them coming up into view through the front window of dad's Lincoln Continental and I would start to beg. Please honk, please honk. I would roll down the window and scream while he honked at the goats and yes, they would faint. Horrible torture for these poor goats I am sure you are thinking, but hours of belly laughs for the entire family. You see this was also a thrill for my father. He had honked, yelled, clapped and stomped at these goats his entire life. Not neccessarily these goats, but goats who lived on this farm. He would repeatedly get in trouble by the farmer because he said the goats would deliver sour milk if he scared them too often, but dad was too smart as an adult to believe him. HONK HONK SCREAM = FAINT