Getting My Goat

Despite protestations to the contrary by the outside temperature gauge on my car, today’s external ambience is bitingly cold. The wind chill messing with the gauge’s veracity; the latter’s climatic inaccuracy borne from negation of breeze condition influences from its encasing within the car’s chassis.

This is today’s second essay. This additional prose an infrequent event, but with some spare time on my hands, I’ve decided to spend it in a portal of literary creativity. A more appealing option than watching daytime TV, or yet again subjecting myself to my mum’s ‘fascinating’ habitually aired anecdote about how cheesecloth got its name.

Footnote – Apparently, cheesecloth got it’s name because it was formerly the cloth material utilised to store cheese….. Who’d have guessed it?!

I’m quilling on this parchment in casa Strachan’s living room. Opposite my mum sits armchair in situ glued to an afternoon TV broadcast about farms, I’m perched in the opposite corner of the chamber in a twin armchair.

Yours truly focuses intently on his laptop screen, while Mrs S senior sits with a cuppa, currently grinning inanely at a women walking a goat on a lead. Mater clearly enchanted at witnessing the bearded ruminant mammal being exercised in a manner of a canine.

I’m suitably underwhelmed at the sight of the goat being walked hound-like. However, I’m endeavouring not to mention this indifference to my mum (Maggie), fearing engaging her in conversation will expose me to risk of her much told cheesecloth anecdote.

While penning the above paragraph, Maggie averted her gaze from the TV to enquire “How did your dentists appointment go this morning, Gary?”

Without raising my head from the laptop screen, an enquiry to which I responded “Alright ta, mum….. I’d a temporary filling replaced by a permanent dental inlay. All. pretty painless stuff.”  

Our rather uninteresting conversation concluding as swiftly as it started, she returned her gaze to watching different goats being walked on a lead. While doing so probably mooting to herself “Trying to have a conversation with our Gary is like trying to get blood out if bleeding stone!!

“Have you seen these goats on telly, Gary?….. They’re being walked like dogs….. It’s quite humorous.” she then mooted in a gleeful tone.

“Yeah!” I retorted uninterestedly at her closed question. Again attempting to avoid becoming embroiled in familial small talk – My eyes remaining fixed on laptop screen.

“Would you ever have a goat as a pet, Gary?” Maggie continued, apparently keen not to let me concentrate on writing this narrative.

“No, why would I want a goat!” I asked irritably at yet another interruption.

“Well you reckon these days you’re very fond of dogs!” Maggie pointed out idiosyncratically.

“Yes, but a goat isn’t a dog!!” I snapped irascibly, as I continued attempting to concentrate on the literary job in hand.

“Yeah, but as this TV show proves, you can walk goats like dogs!” the old lady was moved to highlight.

“I don’t care!” I snapped back, prior to adding irritatedly “Whether you can take an animal for a stroll isn’t my main criteria for pet choice….. I love dogs because of their unconditional loyalty and affection!…… Goats won’t offer those qualities.”

“Goats might be loyal and affectionate too?!” Maggie continued with the interaction, much to my chagrin.

“I don’t care!….. I don’t want a bloody goat, mum!” I ranted with voice tone rising.

“Walking a goat will be just as beneficial as a dog exercise wise!” mum continued interrupting my creative flow.

“MUM, I DON’T WANT A F***ING GOAT!!” I yelled, finally ‘losing it’ with my eccentric mother.

After a short period of silence, my mum looked in my direction prior to tentatively questioning “Did I ever tell you how cheesecloth got it’s name, Gary?!”


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