Billy Goat

There’s nothing cuter than a baby goat. Well, okay, maybe a baby pig, but that’s another story. Let’s talk goats.
Maybe we don’t have a farm and maybe Walzie’s true name is not Noah, but we’ve crammed nearly every animal imaginable into our two acre ark, including several goats.
When walking through the goat barn at the Huntingdon County Fair, I first noticed how cute baby goats are. Naturally, I wanted one right away and my dear hubby, (who will do nearly anything to keep me happy, bless his little pea pickin’ heart!), quickly said, “Okay, you got it. But let’s get a miniature. It’ll stay tiny and make a really good pet. Shucks, maybe we could even make it a house goat.”
So for several weeks we perused the Bargain Sheet and finally one day, there was the following ad: For Sale, miniature kids, $15. Yahoo, assuming that they didn’t mean tiny children, we’d found our baby. Only thing was, the farm was in Cumberland, MD. Oh what the heck, it was only a four- hour drive (two down, two back), and we really wanted a mini. We sped off on a hot Saturday afternoon.
Following the farmer’s directions, we traveled back a long country lane sided by high weeds and rocky hills. Once in a while we’d see a flash of black and white darting among the weeds or hear a shrill “nnaaahhhh”. At least we knew we were in goat territory. Finally, we reached the farm.
An elderly Amish-looking man greeted us. We paid him the $15 and he instructed us to pick one. There must have been a hundred nannies, kids, and billies roaming in a weed patch. Pick one; yeah, right! Being young and knowing everything, Walzie and I dove in. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Amish man snicker.
We ran and we chased through the brier patch. Goats darted around, over, and even under us. Finally, Walzie was able to pounce on a teeny black baby. Oh, he was a cutie. As I stood there, oohing and aahing, I never heard the snort behind me. Old Billy’s rock-hard forehead connected with my buns. He sent me down the hill like a rolling donut dusted with thorns.
The Amish man asked if we’d like to have our prize catch neutered, “dey make mo’ betta pets dat vay,” he stated. We nodded. He instructed Walzie to hold the little guy by all four feet and bottom up. When I saw the pocket knife, I tightly shut my eyes, cupped my ears, and cringed.
Next thing I knew, the old man spit two grape-like things at my feet. The barn cats came running to scrap over those tiny desserts. I nearly lost my lunch.
“Don’t be squeamish, missie,” he said with a trickle of blood on his lip. “Dat’s the vay the shephard’s do it. More sanitary. Ya see, me teeth dey crimp da blood vessels. Not as messy dat vay.”
The baby goat cried and Walzie hugged him, “Calm down little Billy. That didn’t hurt too much, did it?”
“Ya vant to be next?” the old Amish man asked.
Walzie and I and our new baby got the heck out of there.
And so the little goat thrived in our back yard. You know they say that goats will eat anything – not so. This guy only ate flowers, shrubs, garden plants, and the bark off our trees. As the months flew by, Billy grew, and grew, and grew. He was no longer a mini-goat. He ended up being a full-sized goat with 6 inch horns and an attitude like a bull in a China shop. Do you think this may have had something to do with the neutering?
Billy absolutely hated our kids (the human ones, of course), our hound dogs, cows, his pen, weeds, squirrels, even Walzie and me. Billy would just as soon butt it as look at it.
On our back deck we have a glass sliding door. I’ll bet you can guess where I’m going with this. Our son, Jason, was about twelve years old; his job was to feed Billy. But Billy didn’t care if Jason was hand that fed him or not. I heard Jason scream and then the glass door slam shut. Suddenly, there was the shatter heard ‘round the world, and Billy stood in our kitchen! Jason was locked in his bedroom shouting, “shoot that sucker!”
And thus, our sweet little mini-goat that grew into a split-hoofed Tasmanian Devil went on a little trip to the Belleville Auction. I’ll bet that tough ol’ boy was like baked shoe leather on someone’s dinner table.
As time passed by, we forgot the terrible saga of that goat and bought several more goats, sheep, cows, chickens, ducks, horses, pigs … keep it up, Noah, we’ll soon need to build that ark.

Monkey Hijinks

Coaly’s little heart pounded with anxiety as he pedaled his bicycle down the alley. He hated delivering the newspaper to the Sprankle’s household. Most times, it was a family dog that chased him, barking and grabbing for his pant legs. The Johnson’s bulldog had bitten him twice, but the Sprankle place was worse than that. They had Fanny, the monkey.
Fanny was a refugee from the Wilson’s field carnival. Do you know where that was? Well, Kunzler’s and WTRN now occupy the property, but back in the 30s that empty lot was prime carnival ground.
The Sprankles lived beside the Juniata Packing Company, just across the road from Wilson’s field. The carnival with its sideshow freaks, hootchy-cootchy shows, and hurdy-gurdy monkey man was like a cotton candy magnet to the Sprankle twins, Bobby and Ab, and since it was just across the highway, they didn’t have far to go to satisfy their curiosity.
Twelve-years-old and just about to blossom into puberty, the twins stood with their friend, Coaly, and watched Fifi, the snake charmer, as she swayed her hips like a Hula dancer. The boa constrictor wrapped itself around her; she winked at the boys and they giggled shyly. The hurdy-gurdy man cranked his music and his monkey’s antics made the boys laugh.
Behind them stood old Spuds McCaulley, the dirty hobo who rode the freight trains to and from Pittsburgh. Sometimes Spuds bummed suppers at the Sprankle’s house and told the boys tall tales about riding the rails. Spuds grinned toothlessly as he watched Fifi’s dance.
Suddenly, Coaly screamed, “Git this monkey off’n me!”
The boy danced trying to shake that monkey off his leg. It scurried higher and perched on Coaly’s shoulder. Chattering loudly, it picked through Coaly’s dark, kinky hair as if looking for fleas.
“I hate this monkey,” the boy shouted. “Git it off!”
The twins rolled in the dust with laughter at their friend’s predicament. Finally, Spuds plucked the monkey off of Coaly’s head and set her on the stage. Immediately, she climbed on top of the hurdy-gurdy and chattered.
Fifi placed the snake in its cage and reached her hand out to Spuds; she pulled him onto the stage. The monkey bounced onto Spuds’ shoulder and clung to him for dear life. The boys watched curiously as Fifi, Spuds, the monkey and the hurdy-gurdy man disappeared inside the tent.
“Aw heck,” Bobby said. “The show’s over. Let’s got get some candy apples.”
“Oh, I hate monkeys,” shivered Coaly.
“Bet that monkey thought you was his mama,” teased Ab. Coaly shoved Ab, he stumbled into Bobby; they all laughed and made their way through the crowd toward the candy apple stand.
Several weeks later, Spuds showed up at the Sprankle’s door. Mrs. Sprankle invited him inside to join the family for supper. This time Spuds brought a friend - a hairy, long-tailed, big-eyed friend named Fanny. She curled between the twins and settled in like a long, lost relative.
“Well, lookee there,” Spuds said. “I believe that monkey likes you boys. You know, jumping freight trains is not much of a life for a man, let alone a man with a monkey. Would you boys like to keep Fanny?”
“Can we, mama,” they pleaded. “Please.”
Sara Sprankle never could resist the innocent doe-eyes of her tow-headed twin boys and the monkey joined their family.
So every evening, just as the paperboy pedaled down the alley, the twins and Fanny patiently waited behind the hedge. They heard the crunch of the bicycle tires on the gravel growing louder and they knew that Coaly was getting closer. Closer. Closer.
Suddenly, Fanny leaped right on Coaly’s head. He screamed. The bike wobbled. Newspapers flew in the air. Fanny hung on to the boy’s ears and rode him all the way into the ditch. Jungle cries filled the neighborhood.
“Git this monkey off’n me,” shouted Coaly.
Bobby and Ab came to their friend’s rescue, laughing all the way.
“I hate that monkey!”
Fanny jumped on Bobby and curled her tail around his neck. She howled as if still in the jungle.
“We think Fanny loves you, Coaly!”
Thus began the long-time friendship between the twins and the monkey and the daily torment of the poor paperboy. Did this torture ever deter Coaly? Never. He remained a true friend to the Sprankles until just a few years ago when his time here on earth was finished. Betcha Fanny was a’waitin’ behind a hedge of clouds to welcome Coaly.

Walzie loves Porky

Walzie loves pigs. Now, I’m sure there will be a few smart-alecks out there thinking, “Yeah, that’s why he’s still with that redheaded porker”. Well, just knock it off; that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean those porcine critters that give us sausage, bacon, ham, and pork chops.
We don’t have a farm, but Walzie thinks we do. He decided that it would be great to raise our own hog and butcher it. But, Walzie rationalized that it doesn’t cost any more to raise ten hogs than it does to raise one. So in our little ramshackle shed we call a barn, Walzie sectioned off a box stall for ten little pigs. Cute little oinkers … while they are little; but boy, do pigs ever grow fast.
We had a mixture of sows and boars (girl and boy pigs). The boys needed to be neutered. Supposedly, that would keep them even-tempered. I never could quite figure that one out. Cut my bottom and my even-temperament would skyrocket to the moon. Besides that, don’t the girls get PMS?
So neutering day came. Walzie and his buddy, Ralph disappeared inside the barn. As an unwilling witness, I stayed on the back porch. Knowing full well what was happening to those poor little boy pigs, I cringed with each squeal. Soon the faux veterinarians emerged with a plastic bag filled with country oysters. Now, I am fairly adventurous and will taste almost anything, but no, no, no, not that. I fed them to the barn cats.
Nearly all the little pigs fared well through the neutering, all except one. The poor little guy developed an infection in his behind. Have you ever wanted to rub salve on a pig’s butt? Well, neither did I, but I got elected for that daily chore. Actually, I did have a choice: hold the pig or rub the salve. Walzie has more muscle – he held; I rubbed; little pig squealed. Day in and day out the little pig got his treatment, until four days into the routine, Porky disappeared.
We searched all through the woods behind our house, around the local farmer’s fields, and combed the neighborhood shouting, “soo-eee, pig, pig, pig”. Porky didn’t answer. We figured he was a goner.
Several days later, our neighbor lady called. “There is a strange looking creature lying in the stream by my house. Maybe it’s your lost pig?”
It was.
Walzie high-tailed it to the stream. Porky saw him coming. He ran through the brush and the brambles; no way was he returning to be tortured at the Walls’ dungeon. Finally, he cornered Porky in the mud wallow where he had been holed up. Walzie pounced on him. Now, just imagine a two hundred pound guy, wrestling a fifty-pound slippery pig in a mud wallow.
When I saw Walzie carrying Porky home, I nearly split a gut. The only way I could tell them apart was because Porky squealed louder than Walzie. But at least our little pig was home safe and sound. And guess what? The mud had healed his behind.
So for eight more months, Porky and his friends lived the life of Riley. We had access to all the tainted milk the local farmers were throwing away and pigs thrive on milk mixed with corn mash. They quickly became ready to be prime whole hog sausage.
Ever try to load ten two hundred pound squealing pigs into the back of a pick-up truck? ‘Taint an easy task. Walzie pulled, I pushed, and got knocked into the pig poo half a dozen times, but finally we got them loaded. Nine went to the sale barn; Porky went to the slaughterhouse.
Macky Garner’s custom butcher shop was in Altoona near the high school. Yeah, in the city. You won’t believe what happened next. When we unloaded Porky, he took one whiff of that slaughterhouse and jumped the gate. Porky escaped again, running up the alley behind the butcher shop. I ran after the pig. Walzie ran around the street and cut him off at the end of the block. Porky spun around and charged me. I leaped atop a parked car. The butcher, armed with a rifle, ended Porky’s charge. Do that in Altoona today! You’d be handcuffed and locked up in the hoosegow before you could say “soo-ee”!
You know, I really felt bad the first time I unwrapped a package of Porky, after all, we’d been through so much. But then I tasted the sausage; it was the best ever. I’ve never looked back.
T-t-t-hats all folks!