PROMPT RESPONSE
Madge, Merv, and the Pervy Goat
Here’s looking at you, kid!
Madge stomped into the kitchen, still wearing her muddy gumboots made from bright blue rubber, patterned with yellow chickens.
Merv knew things weren’t right the minute Madge breached the doorway, still wearing her boots. His wife normally defended her farmhouse kitchen perimeter with a passion, banning all mud, dirt, dust, feces and animal dander.
Merv’s look of concern deepened as his wife stomped sloshy footprints across the floor to the mantle where she stretched her full height to retrieve the shotgun from its wall cradle.
“Problem, dear?” he enquired gently, tamping down a sudden rush of anxiety.
Becoming aware of Merv’s presence, Madge raised her head, temporarily ceasing a frantic search in the bottom of her deep apron pockets. Her arthritic fingers fluttered around, foraging for the two shells she knew had been nestling there since she recently dealt with a persistent fox causing trouble in the chook house.
“I’ve had a complete gutful of Billy — he gets weirder every day! Aha!” she declared, pulling her fist from the murky depths of her garment. “Got ‘em!”
Madge held out an open palm revealing two shiny brass shells. “These here have got that damn goat’s name on them!”
“I rather thought they might have Remington’s name on them,” smiled Merv, attempting to lighten the situation with a joke.
“If you’ve been renaming the herd again, dear, that’s fine. Just means Remington is gonna get his backside christened with hot shot!”
Merv eased his elderly bones out of his kitchen chair and gingerly approached his wife.
“Give me the gun, dear. Let’s chat about it over a nice cuppa.”
“No!” she cried, twirling away from her husband.
“Cheezus!” muttered Merv, his eyes riveted on the back of his wife’s head. “What in hell’s name happened to the back of your hair? It looks like you’ve got a case of red mange!”
Madge’s hand flew to the back of her head with a whimper.
“That’s effin’ Billy’s work!” she screeched. “I was sitting peacefully, milking Nanny, enjoying the birdsong and the early morning sun on my face. Nanny was happily standing on the stanchion, feeding on grain in the trough, when suddenly, stinkin’ Billy ripped my entire bun off the back of my head.”
Madge gave a little sob before continuing. “When I realised what the hell had happened, I turned around and I swear that goddamn goat was grinning — strands of my hair were stuck between his teeth! It was disgusting!”
“Goats do shit like that,” defended Merv, afraid that Madge was about to overreact by shooting his best goat.
“He won’t get another chance to do it to me!” announced his wife, fiercely.
The anger appeared to leave Madge as she flopped down at the kitchen table, resting the gun on her lap.
“I don’t know what else to do,” she confessed. “Billy has eaten the entire line of drying laundry twice this week. The bastard seems to get into the yard somehow. I swear he opens the gate all by himself.”
Merv grinned proudly. “Yep, seen him do it myself, he’s a smart bugger!”
Madge winced at Merv’s obvious admiration. She reached under the table and moved the shotgun to rest beside her teacup, placing it within easy reach.
“He ate all of the heads off my azaleas and my agapanthus,” whispered his wife, tears forming at the corner of her eyes.
“I know you loved those plants dear, but you could always plant more and I’ll make sure Billy stays outside of the house yard.”
“There’s something else,” muttered Madge. “He’s behaving badly around the kids.”
“What the hell?” growled Merv. “I hope he hasn’t been butting Jilly and Jack. I don’t want those kids upset.”
“Not the grandkids, silly,” replied Madge. “He’s sniffing around the kid goats… um… inappropriately. I swear he has weird ideas. Do you think goats can be perverted?”
“Don’t know, dear, but it’s not like he’s hurting people, well, except for your bun. He’s just curious and very intelligent, I think.”
Madge sighed, “He ate the apple pie I had cooling on the window sill yesterday.”
“Steady on!” Merv raised his hands in mock horror. “I don’t want that rascal eating my favourite pie!”
“He butted the new farmhand, Joey, into the pigpen — the stinkin’ porkers tried to eat the poor boy. Billy stood by with his maniacal grin, making noises like a rutting pig,” whispered Madge.
“Uh huh, that useless bludger needed a good kick up the bum,” replied Merv, nonchalantly turning his attention back to the newspaper he had been reading before Madge had come in, all fired up.
Madge half rose from her chair and placed the shotgun shells close to Merv.
Merv continued reading the news.
“Did you see,” he announced, “the price of hay is going up twenty per cent? Think it might be time to cut and bale that grass in the back paddock.”
Madge, face set in stone, silently nodded.
“Billy ate all the bark off the fruit trees in the orchard,” she mused.
“Tsk tsk,” replied Merv.
“Chawed right through the irrigation pipe in the south paddock.”
“Mmm?” Merv noisily turned to the next page of the daily rag.
Slowly, surreptitiously, Madge edged the shotgun across the table toward her husband.
“Made a hell of a mess crapping on, and tearing up the leather seats in your newly restored Holden Ute!”
The farmer’s wife leaned back in her chair, crossing her chicken gumboot-clad ankles, a satisfied smirk on her face.
The sound of a shotgun blast ringing out from the north pasture was music to her ears and a gentle panacea to her throbbing, bun-less scalp.
May More 💜 Tales would love a pair of chicken patterned gumboots! Just sayin’.
Adam Robinson prompted us with a goat story all about himself. Fooled nobody!
Jennifer McDougall has a raunchy farmyard discussion:
Hooked on goats? Check this one out by moi (Raine Lore):
