Little Tappers of Doom

Whenever I talked about getting a dog, my mom always told me that I would lose interest in it once it got old, because old dogs aren’t nearly as cute as puppies. I always argued that dogs were cute no matter how old they were, hoping that that flew in the face of her baby-things-are-always-cuter-than-grown-things theory. 

However, one absolute non exception to her theory is goats. Grown goats are terrifying and mean and baby goats are the cutest things in the entire world. I think that it’s the most precious thing ever that their hooves are called little tappers. Apparently I relay this fact often. A friend of mine told me that I tell him that every time we see a baby goat. I didn’t believe him until he started pointing it out every time. That was also when I realized we were spending far too much time together. 

Anyway, the point is baby goats with their little tappers are the most adorable things ever.

So I was fine with the fact that my village was overrun with goats. I live toward the end of town, right before the main road, and there are not many people around me. I have 2 neighbors, but aside from them, it’s just me. I also have the biggest veranda. So naturally when it rains, my veranda is the spot that the neighborhood animals congregate on. As soon as the rain comes, my veranda is overrun with chickens, sheep and of course, goats. 

On the first real massive rain of my time here, I was sitting in a chair, trying to force myself to walk the quarter mile to the well and pull some water for a bath because it had been about 5 days and it was really time. Before I could move though, the rain came and my phone rang simultaneously. I grabbed my phone and talked to my friend for a few minutes before I realized that I could solve my laziness problem by just catching the rainwater. So I opened my front door, and my back door, and was going to run into my latrine, which is just out the back door and around the corner, attached, but outside. 

I was trying to hurry before the rain relented while also trying to make plans for the next day on the phone. Just as I was reaching back door, I heard angry bleat from behind me. I turned and saw the most precious tiny goat ever, which, for some reason, was pissed. He had chased me through my house and then proceeded to chase me out my back door and into my latrine. I was cornered in my latrine, with this 15 pound runt of a goat yelling at me, while my friend is still jabbering on the phone, unaware that my life was in mortal peril. 

Unsure of what to do and unwilling to have my tombstone read “here lies Kylee Reynolds, she was trampled to death by little tappers” I yell into the phone, 

“Banjor! A baby goat is attacking me!”

He stops talking asks me to repeat myself, and then proceeded to absolutely crack up which was no help whatsoever. While he was pissing himself from 7 miles away, I did the only logical thing, which was wave a bucket at it, stomp my feet and yell at it in Temne. He finally got scared and ran back into my house, where he promptly got stuck under my desk. While I was trying to get him the hell out of my house, his scared yelps attracted the attention of his very formidable mother, who stuck her head in my house, scaring the ever living crap out of me. Before things got primordial though, the baby goat unearthed himself, and ran off my veranda, his mom following suit.

I collapsed in my chair, bucket in hand trying to process what had just happened. Banjor was still on the phone, laughing but trying to pull himself together. After assuring him the goat was gone, confirming our plans and hanging up, I looked out at the road. Almost as though it was scripted, the offending baby goat walks by, looks at me, bleats, and moves on. 

I never did catch that rainwater.