Often I would visit the path that ran through the greenbelt. It was full of harmless people like me, simple outdoor enthusiasts. Allegedly, a stalker once emerged from the trees and menaced young women with a knife, but that was several years ago, ancient history, water under the bridge. The city crew was always nearby, mowing, sawing limbs, prepping the adjacent park’s softball fields for that night’s games.
Then some voltage fencing appeared, and beyond it a herd of goats. The other recreationalists and I would pause in our pursuits to admire the goats. It wasn’t every day you saw a heard of goats. We considered the town fathers extremely wise, full of pluck. Goats ate everything! They would clear the scrubland on either side of the path, which they did. Public land would be converted from wild thickets into bare earth fertilized with goat pellets. What an elegant solution.
The city crews constantly shifted the goats and their electrical barricade to new areas, so it was a nice surprise when we chanced upon them. Were they in the shadow of the truck stop? Near the city pool? The retirement condos? I would pause, drawn to the fence. Was it truly humming with voltage? The goats themselves seemed unconcerned, heads down, jaws working.
They were always milling and eating, always trying to reach dangling limbs. In the parking lot of nearby city hall were machines full of goat food, like gumball machines, but instead of bubble gum you inserted a quarter, held your hands under the spigot, and goat food spilled out. The pellets of food closely resembled the pellets the goats left behind.
Groups appeared at the edge of the path, a sure sign goats were nearby. The goats seemed to prefer the food pellets tossed over the fence by children. Maybe the goats were simply as lazy as people, and it took less work to eat the pellets than to forage. Maybe the pellets tasted better.
The goats were cute, especially the babies. But with their strange yellow eyes and cloven hooves, goats were sometimes maligned as devilish. I could relate. I had a condition that prevented me from smiling or laughing, even when I meant to, so people judged me solitary and solemn without knowing the full story.
How would it feel if I put my hands on the fence? I began to assign names to various goats. Herman had a nick out of his ear. There was a darker patch of hair on Muriel’s flank. The fence was too high for me to hurdle. Maybe my rubber-soled shoes would save me from a good shock.
I admired the goats’ quiet communications, how steadfastly they went about their business, never fighting or getting in each other’s way. I’m almost certain they recognized me and could see through to the inner me that was happy and smiling.
I removed the gloves from my jacket and put them on. My knife fell out, and I quickly picked it up. Then I scaled the fence when no one was looking. There was no shock whatsoever, and I wasn’t even sure the electricity was turned on. Maybe the sign was enough to discourage people. The goats were curious, and they gathered around, recognizing me, my true spirit. Or maybe they simply believed I was going to feed them. A few nuzzled my clothes to see if I was hiding any food. They bleated, presumably to alert the others that I had no food. Would my life be simpler if I focused all the time on finding food? I set out to learn the goats’ language.
A city employee in a motorized cart came by, looking over, looking again. He hit the brakes. “Hey!” he yelled. “You can’t be in there!”
I picked up a couple pellets and popped them into my mouth. I couldn’t be certain whether they were food or waste. They didn’t taste very good. I supposed I’d get used to them.
“Get out of there!” the man yelled, approaching the fence. “Hey, aren’t you the crazy guy from a couple years ago?”
I drew the knife. You menace a couple joggers one time, and it follows you forever. “Careful,” I called. “It’s electrified.”
“Yeah, I’m the one who set it up, idiot. Come out of there. I’m calling the cops.”
I bleated, maybe not convincingly yet. I had a knife. There were goats. It only made sense that this called for a sacrifice.
I live in Urbandale, Iowa with my wife and kids. I earned an MA in creative writing from Iowa State University in 2002 and an MFA in creative writing from Penn State University in 2006. I’ve worked in the financial services industry ever since.
Poems of mine have appeared in New Orleans Review, Indiana Review, Boston Review, Subtropics, Willow Springs, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Sonora Review. My fiction has appeared in Quarterly West, Crazyhorse, Cutbank, Arts & Letters, Washington Square, North American Review, and the Best New American Voices anthology. I am the recipient of an AWP Intro Journals award, numerous Pushcart Prize nominations, and my fiction manuscript was a past finalist in the Flannery O’Connor Award competition.
Euphony Journal 