My family come, at least partially, from Illinois. My grandparents and a good number of my aunts and uncles live in Peoria, which is mostly farming county. My grandpa owned a nice chunk of land on which he liked to keep a plethora of different animals. On the numerous occasions my family have visited from Australia I remember him having chicken, cattle, horses, turkey, donkeys, mules, lamb, sheep, and finally goats. This story relates to the goats.
If you are from a country family or have friends from the country, you will know there are more ways to find entertainment on a farm than anywhere else in the world. Sure, Disney World and Movie World are great places, but the rides grow boring as you try them again and again, while the fun on a farm grows more and more the longer you stay. Animals tend to be the greatest form of entertainment, usually by chasing them down and trying to catch them. You can use a lasso or a box, but chasing down some animal with just your own brute strength is an even more rewarding adventure.
On the visit when my grandpa had goats there was a particularly ferocious billy. He wasn’t too big, pretty average for a goat, but he had a temper like you wouldn’t believe. If you cornered him his first reaction was to bull rush you and knock you down. I watched him knock down my dad, a man who stood over 2 meters tall and weighed close to 100 kilos. The billy, this beast, had acquired my undivided attentions. I was going to catch him; I was going to win. I had a few tries while the family were watching. Obviously they laughed when I fell down or when the billy knocked me over. That first day I only succeeded in tiring myself out. It got late; dinner was called; I gave up and went inside to recuperate.
On the second day I went out late in the afternoon. The billy seemed ready for me. I think he knew what was coming when I opened the gate and stepped in. I brought a lasso this time and had a few tries catching him with that. I’m not particularly skilled with a lasso and on the one try when I actually got the rope around his neck he tried to pull away into a corner. Like a fool, I followed. He charged and I fell on my ass. The next hour I chased him round; tried spear tackling, feinting manoeuvres, approaching cautiously, etc. Eventually I grew tired and used the lasso to pull him to me so I could pull it off his neck. Dinner was called again and I went in to recuperate, thus the second day was over.
The third day dawned. Jetlag was never a serious issue for me, so while my family slept I headed out to the goat pen. The billy was waiting for me. I think he had begun enjoying our little game because now he was attempting feinting manoeuvres. He’d go left, I’d charge, then he’d miraculously turn around and I’d end up on my face with the goat snickering at me. I felt like an idiot, but the game was fun nonetheless. After 30 minutes of running around I eventually cornered the billy. I knew what to expect this time; he would charge if I got too close and knock me down. I planned for this. I approached cautiously, he lunged, I jumped to the right while twisting my body to bring my arms around his midsection. My legs hit the adjacent fence and I quickly adjusted to use it as leverage to flip the goat on his side. He did not like this, and while I did manage to capture him, the elation of success was short lived. Having flipped him over in such an awkward fashion my body was in a precarious position. I decided this was enough and let him go, but rather than run off into the main section of the pen, he decided to back into the corner again. As I stood up he charged. I was not in a good position to dodge, but I tried anyway. I was not fast enough. I have never known pain like that any other time in my life. When he lunged he got his horn right under my leg into my crotch…and then he bucked up.
By the time all this had happened my grandfather had gotten up and was feeding the horses. I limped into the barn. He looked at the blood pouring from my crotch and just said “He gotcha, huh.” I merely nodded and asked him not to tell anyone. To this day none of my parents or siblings had heard this story, and unfortunately my grandfather passed away few years ago and thus I was the only one to tell the tale. It is one of the memories I have from his farm. I bear a rather interesting scar in a rather precarious place thanks to that goat. I still think fondly of that visit though, and the effort trying to keep the family from recognizing the injury was actually very worth it.
I hope you enjoyed this story. I still have the pants from that encounter and have linked a picture so you may all know exactly where the goat got me.
https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/t1.0-9/10302061_4201257766769_6341553179933862473_n.jpg
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