“Roscoe,” Paco pleaded, “think of what will happen if we don’t talk to your father. We need those directions.”

Roscoe sighed, “You’re right. C’mon…but quietly.” He led them to a far corner of the barn, careful to tread quietly on the overgrown clover covering the ground. As they crept along, they searched through cracks in the wall. “He’s here!” Roscoe whispered with excitement. The other two gazed through a slit in the board and saw an old goat with a long gray beard lying on a hay pile in a shadowy corner. They tiptoed to the outside wall behind him and Roscoe pushed his mouth through a knothole. “Psssst, Pop!” No response. “Hey, Dad! Hey! Can you hear me?” The old goat was chewing on hay, looking into space. Roscoe stomped his hoof on the dirt. “Aww, it’s no use! He must be deaf!”

Paco looked down and saw where someone had dug under the wall. He started scratching with his front paws.

Clementine rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you let a real rooter handle this?”

“What was that?” Paco said from the other side of the wall. Roscoe’s dad still hadn’t noticed them. “Can you make it, Roscoe?” Paco asked the grunting goat as he squeezed himself under the planks. With one final push Roscoe popped out the other side and shook off the loose dirt.

Clementine had a little more trouble. “If I take a deep breath…” He forced his fat head through, but it caught. The others ignored him and walked up behind the old goat.

“Dad!”

The startled goat jumped up, hind legs stiff. He looked stuck in the mud. The left eye in his black face was closed but his right popped wide open. “Roscoe!” he cried.

Clementine tried not to laugh. “Wow, Roscoe! Your dad doesn’t fall over when he’s scared. Why do you?”

“Because, pig,” Roscoe’s father answered, “I am a mature goat. Now tell me what you and your little…” he looked at the fat pig’s head, “ahem, friends are doing here.”

Faint voices from the front of the barn drifted their way. “I heard a squealing pig back here,” said a whiny old voice as the room’s door latch clicked.

“Quick, you three. Hide!” Roscoe obeyed his father and jumped in the pile of hay.

Clementine tried to pull his head out of the hole. “Stay still!” Paco whispered as he kicked hay to conceal him. Then he jumped into the hay beside Roscoe.

When the old ladies in faded jeans and flannel shirts walked in, they saw only the old goat lazily chewing on his hay pile. One held a switch tightly in her hand. “I swear I heard a pig, Ernestine.” The goat stared blankly, straight ahead.