I have often been compared to a wild goat. For those unversed in the Southern Albo granny language, it means that I am a strongheaded stubborn woman, who, like a wild goat, will jump from cliff to cliff, and willl not settle down for a nice sheep Albo boy, at a piece of a sunny mountain side.
How did I turn into a goat? I do not know. What I know is that goats are hairy, smelly and with beards, but there the similiarities end. To prove to the grannies that I am God’s beautiful meek sheep, and not some wild harridan smelly she goat that does not like to be milked or be part of the herd, I went to find my charmer. Anyway, it is the jorney that matters, not the horned ram in the end. Or that is what I was taught to think in case it did not work out.
I now am officially a goat. An unruly, overweight, offwhite busty goat. I have had a great journey, met plenty of rams, some weird, some hornless, some with patches of sun, and some with patches of skin on their hairy heads, some docile, slaughterhouse material, some strong and rammy (if there is such a word). Not to leave any cliff unsearched, I also have experimented with Billy goats. However, I do not think that shegoats are really meant to be with billygoats. Maybe nature dropped the ball here or fell asleep on the job.
So I started thinking about a goat charmer. Maybe somebody who can play the fiddle soo sweetly that I will forget that I am a goat and will daintily step down the cliffs I keep escalating and will listen. Then, still playing he will take his hand and let me smell it, then give me some hay, (as a goat, do I eat hay?) then try to pet me. At which point he will get a horn in the butt.
Right, that is not the way I saw this one going. But at least we confirmed once more the fact that I am a goat. My cousin said the same thing over the fancy cup of tea. “Yep, you are a goat.” But then, she is related to my grandmother, so is not to be trusted.
Anyway, my goatcharmer will not be discouraged. (After a few chooice curses) He will come back and play the fiddle again and offer me book pages to eat, nice crisp parchment pages. So I will get used to the smell again, and let him pet me without butting. And slowly I will forget the cliffs and will let hmi put a rope on me, and drag me to the village and the nice clean airy barn, in which I will find all my other goat friends, wild no more, but content to be inseminated once a year by that weirdo billy goat that we jumped a hundred miles away from.
And the meek sheep on the other side of the barn will tell the same story.