I met three goats on the road today.
Sounds like the beginning of a children's story, doesn't it, because unaccompanied goats aren't supposed to be on the road? Maybe I could write such a story, about how an old man meets three goats on a road (whether my three were Billies and whether they were gruff they didn't say) and a conversation ensues, mostly focusing on the fact that goats are not required to submit to formal education, and whether this is deleterious to their future prospects or not. This morning's encounter occasioned no such conversation, of course, but only some 'hellos', much stroking, and a little scratching of ears. And then I found their human to tell her that three of her charges had escaped, and she said 'Again?' It isn't the first time I've noticed that goats are unusually adept at escaping.
Around the corner to the farmhouse near the pub next, there to give much fuss to Molly the Collie, my current favourite dog. She's never pushy, you know. She waits until you call her and then comes to you with much squirming and tail wagging, which is all very splendid.
The oddest encounter came next when I spied a horse tethered to a hedge and grazing the fresh new growth that's appeared on the verges since the rain finally graced us with its presence. She got much stroking of the neck until a voice with an unfamiliar accent warned me not to do that 'because she bites.' Well, I already had so it didn't matter.
This afternoon I did more gardening than I intended to do. It left me with a stiff neck and feeling wasted.
Over and out.
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