On a sunny morning, blue and sweet, Mr. Jamon told me he wanted a book “set in Africa. I’ve never been there, I obviously won’t go now, so I need to learn about it. I’ve only read about twenty books on Africa—I checked my book list on my computer—so my education is lacking on that continent. What do you have?”

I gave him my two favorites.

“And one more romance.”

We went to the romance section. He chose another bodice ripper set in the 1800s. He winked at me. “Getting to know my feminine side in 1850.”

I laughed.

“We all need love, don’t we?”

“We sure do, Mr. Jamon.”

“I’m an old man who still believes in romance!”

* * *

It is hard to catch goats.

Goats are quick and they are tricky. They don’t like to be caught, they don’t want to be caught, they want to be independent and free.

I finally grabbed Mr. Bob and threw a rope around his neck. If he were human, he would be a rebel. Leather coat and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his jaw unshaved.

“Stop it, Mr. Bob, right now!” I told him. He bucked about and struggled. I had to grab him so I could check his left back hoof. He seemed to be limping. “Stop fighting. Dang it, Mr. Bob!” He pulled on the rope and it shouldn’t have caught me off balance, but it did. I tripped over my boots and landed in mud, the “leash” slipping right from my hand.

He wriggled out of the loop around his neck and took off, bucking his back legs at me. When he was ten yards away, he glanced back at me as if to say, “Ha. Ha. I have outrun you again, peasant. Bring me more food.”

Trixie trotted up and sniffed me. She is a gentle sort, but she has a temper. She ran over and bucked Mr. Bob in the head. Mr. Bob ran away, and she came back to check on me. We are bonded in woman power. I know she’s a feminist.

Sundance growled, then ran after Mr. Bob, who skittered away and then jumped on the roof of his blue house. Sundance barked at him, my dear friend.

I pulled myself up and out of the sludge and wiped myself off. I looked over at the sheep in the next section. They were gazing innocently back at me as in, “We had nothing to do with this. We are innocent.”

Shakespeare and Jane Austen looked at me, chewing their hay. “That goat is annoying,” I could almost hear them saying. “Such a pest.”

Mars, Jupiter, Venus, and Ghost watched from various areas, two sitting on the fence.

I had a feeling they were all laughing at me in a kind and loving way, as if I had deliberately entertained them.

“Fine, you rebellious and difficult goat!”