Bart was our mixed breed billy goat.
He was magnificent, especially in his own mind. He'd never been disbudded as a
buckling, and his horns were allowed to grow. Year by year they added inches to
his physical prowess. As he grew tall, stately, bearded, and shaggy, his horns
lengthened and curled to a majestic three-foot span. Bart ruled the farm with
those horns.
Bart had one friend on the
farm, Misha our barely trained, more of a lawn ornament gelding. I use the term
"friend" lightly, because in the farm animal kingdom, there are not
so much friends as there are partners in crime. They team up for a time in
order to gang up on a common enemy. On our farm, that common enemy and sideshow
curiosity was a trio of lowly pigs.
I liked the pigs, liked them
better than the horses or goats actually. Horses intimidate me, and goats,
while very personable in nature, are just plain obstinate. Whoever coined the
term pig-headed, clearly never owned a goat. It's also quite understandable to
me why God said He'd separate the redeemed from the un-redeemed like sheep and
goats. Sheep may be stupid and in need of a shepherd, but goats can be
downright bad and unmanageable. I say this with deep affection for my cloven hoofed, nanny friends.
And of course... Bart. When he
minded his manners, I could admire him. When he wasn't peeing on himself to
impress the nannies, when he wasn't stinking up the hundred acre wood during
rut, when he wasn't tangling his horns in my clean line of laundry (for which I
tried to twist his head off, but he only lifted me up and laughed), or he wasn't
chasing unsuspecting children (though I admit I found it humorous when I saw
him trotting after two terrified teenagers on the road), Bart was statuesque
and very friendly. But he bored easily, and that always led to misbehavior.
Bart and Misha joined forces over
one long winter. Do you ever wonder what it must be like to be an animal in a
pen or pasture, just standing out there, wiling away the dreary, cold months? For
this pair, the season caused them to form an unusual bond while pig-watching. Near
the barn, within the confine of the larger pasture, stood the pig building, a faded,
once-white structure about eight feet wide by ten feet long, with one open window
facing east. Bart and Misha peered through that window like it was a television
screen that played The Three Pigs all
day long. They never missed an episode. Standing side by side, their heads
poking in the window, they stared... and stared... and stared... for HOURS. For
days even, as a pile of manure grew taller and taller under their feet until,
had they not been too large, they might have stepped right through the window
into the pig room.
They may have been too dumb to
try climbing in; nevertheless, I believe they were plotting. They'd never heard
the actual story of The Three Pigs,
so they didn't know the value of huffing and puffing, yet I'm sure they stood
there discussing murderous plans, breathing threats and terrors on my poor
pigs.
How do I know this? Well,
summer came. We'd moved our three pigs from their housing to a lovely little
pasture of their own where they could browse roots and bugs and enjoy the cool
shade. But Bart and Misha and even the cows had not forgotten them. In fact,
sometimes the cows stood staring over the fence, just as Misha and Bart had done
in front of that window. The goat and horse had spread their pig bigotry to the
cattle!
Then the day came, a glorious
Independence Day, when farm hell broke loose. We had over one hundred
people at our house celebrating the holiday and our nation's freedom. Everyone was
enjoying a giant picnic, water fights, hay rides, Ultimate disc... an altogether terrific Midwestern
July 4th party, when the first screaming squeal assailed
the ears of our guests. Unfortunately, one pig got a little overly zealous in
his rooting around, and he'd managed to find his own misguided freedom
by nudging under the fence and into the other pasture.
Every farmer in our crowd ran
down the hill to the barnyard where the blood curdling cries of our desperate
pig raked the air, and the cows and Misha, with rolling white eyeballs, stamped
and stomped and mooed and jumped and did everything in their power to kill him.
Having done his part to promote the war months before, Bart was stand-offish, like Pontius Pilate.
We chased off the murderous horde
and rescued our poor, poor pig that lay suffering a broken hip. With care, we transported
him back to his kin and did our best to provide comfort. Some farmers might
have put him down, but we decided on a wait-and-see tactic. Meanwhile, we also
needed to console a few humans. What a show!
After that, we never put pigs
in that pig house again. Bart learned other forms of entertainment like
slamming his head repeatedly into a pine tree, and Misha's allegiance switched
to hanging out with the cows. The pig? He lived. In fact, but for a slight limp,
he mostly had a full recovery. He put on some more pounds, and after a few
months, we couldn't taste the difference. :)
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