Grandpa and the Goat

Sort of what my goat looked like

It was about the same light of day as it is now, an hour later.  A clear late October morning, around nine am.

Ioan Gruffudd was there.  He was with these three women, sort of small round women in pink and yellow and other eastery colors, including their hair.  They were interviewing him or something.  It seemed normal.  We were in chairs out behind the barn, where the geldings eat.  I could see the geldings way off on the other side of the field by the fence line.  Near the geldings I could also see, because I heard them first, clamoring fans. I thought that was surprising.

“How do they know you are here?” I asked Gruffudd.  He shrugged but looked over his shoulder in their direction anyway.  I didn’t mention that I was surprised to see such a frenzy, not from Nor Cal fans, they didn’t usually get so… frenzied.   While I was thinking that, they broke the fence down, which would have caused a very particular kind of panic for me under normal circumstances.  But the horses were now running away from the fence, due to the stampeding fans coming through the fence.  So, the horses would not get to the road, because they could not get through the fans.  Their numbers had grown considerably.  The fans I mean.

Not what my goat looked like at all but so insanely cute I had to share

I grabbed the nearest small round woman and waved everyone to move! As they did I said “just get in your car and get out of here.”  They did that, and I ran for cover in the house next door.  The guy who lives there was pulling on a yellow string, which turned out to be attached to a small white goat.

I could hear the fans rushing past like the sound of the surf.  I sat down on the floor and crossed my legs.  The goat ran up and jumped into my lap and gave a bleat.  It was very cute, very soft.

My brother came in, possibly to ask about the fans outside.  I said “look!” and nodded to the goat.

“I don’t like goats,” he said.

“No, no, you have to hold it,” and I shoved the goat in his chest.  He held on to it and said “okay, it’s cute,” and put it down.  It ran away dragging its string.  I knew this was only the first of many goats in the neighbor’s house.

Grandfather I never met

It turned out we were going to play some variety of baseball.  Gruffudd and the small women had returned, the fans were dispersing.  Now my grandfather was there too.  Not the grandfather I knew but the one who died when my father was a child.  The one I never met.  He was younger now than he was in the photos I have seen of him.  He was going to play too.

I thought “that’s nice, Dad will be really happy to see his father since his father has been gone for such a long time.”

Dad doesn’t really like sports.  At all.  But I thought he would like to play too, since his Dad was here.  Somehow I was labeled as one of the more competent players in the process of choosing our teams.  Much was made of my good sense to run away when the fan stampede started.  I didn’t understand what that had to do with playing baseball.

We were still sorting out how to choose teams and whether the goats would play when I woke up.

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