Squawks and cackles filled the chicken yard as he stepped out of range of the squabbling fowls. It was a chaotic blanket of reddish-brown and yellowish white feathers. Mike enjoyed watching the frenzied feeders as they vied for dominance and their share of the food. That would soon end when “Red” appeared. A shiver went down the boy’s spine at the thought.
That Rhode Island Red rooster was big and mean. With his red comb, those fiery red eyes, a cocky strut, reddish-brown and black feathers, and his yellow legs equipped with 2 inch spurs, he was not a rooster to rouse. He always looked ready for a fight. This eight year old pushed those thoughts aside. It was time to gather the eggs while the hens were preoccupied with their breakfast.
He’d collected the last egg about the time that cranky cock appeared. Red was too busy pecking grain to give any thought to this potential intruder. Quietly, Mike slipped out the area unnoticed.
As he approached the farmhouse, Cousin Bill came running toward him all excited. “Hey, Mike! Give Grandma those eggs and come on.” Bill was a year younger than Mike and full of energy. If Bill had an idea, it was usually fun and a bit unconventional. They’d both gotten Grandma’s “switchin’s” for those kinds of notions more than once.
Puzzled, Mike responded “Why? What’s going on?”
With brightening eyes he exclaimed, “We heard Grandpa say the herd was in the south pasture up by the hog pen. And Billy’s up there!”
Billy! We hadn’t seen that kid goat since Uncle Louie brought him to the farm last spring. He was a little white ram that was fun to play with and to play tricks on. All the cousins had spent time teasing, touching and taunting that little feller. But Billy always took it in stride and rutted his head back at them as a way of affirmation, affection, or retaliation. Regardless, he was always entertaining for the clan.
Mike hurried to the kitchen, set the basket of eggs on the counter, and ran back out the door. By this time most of the other cousins were running up the hill toward the hog pen. He saw Bill at the yard gate prancing impatiently as he waited. Catching sight of Mike, Bill shouted “Come on. They’re getting ahead of us!”
Rejoining Bill, Mike chirped, “Let’s go!” and off they raced to catch up with the others.
The pasture was uphill about a quarter mile from the farm house. As the two boys ran, they passed the old grinding wheel for sharpening axes. Then came the metal wood shed, the belt-driven sawmill blade (about 4 feet in diameter), the old John Deere Model B tractor and a large pile of firewood. The boys had carried their share of arm loads to the house. Without electricity in the area, it kept the cook stove going year round for baking and warmth on those frigid winter nights.
Just past the woodpile were the Banty hens and roosters. They were about half the size of the Rhode Island Reds in height but twice as cranky as old Red ever thought of being. Grandma took care of their needs. Mike and Bill slipped past them without even a cheep from the brood.
Finally they approached the tree line where the old Model T’s retired. The boys had enjoyed numerous adventures there; chasing mice and lizards while pretending to be treasure hunters, but not today. The hog pen was just a bit further up the road on the other side of the trees and then the pasture. “Billy” was waiting.
As they passed between the trees the Hereford herd came into view, about 20 head. In the middle was a large white animal. At first the clutch of cousins were mystified. “What is that?” they wondered.
Then Sharon, the oldest girl proclaimed, “That’s Billy! Boy has he grown!”
The children carefully pressed against the barbed wire fence for a closer look. Whispers and giggles mingled as all stood in wonder at the transformation of their pet kid goat.
Munching on grass amongst the herd, Billy raised his head in response to the unfamiliar sounds. Recognizing his old playmates, he ambled toward the small congregation of admirers. He’d gained about 40 pounds and two feet in height along with a long pair of horns.
Reuniting with familiar faces, he gave out a “Baaaaaahhh” and cantered merrily toward the children. His tuft of beard swayed in the breeze as he loped. Hands reached through the wire to get their first touch of the white wayfarer. Mike and Bill just watched as the rest enjoyed the reunion.
Squeals from little piggy’s wafted across the air amongst the moos of the cattle. The two boys wandered toward the pen to get a closer look. Suddenly, frightful screams of alarm broke out from the cousins. As a playful antic, one of the boys had grabbed Billy’s horns and held his head against a fence post. Underestimating his new size and strength, Billy butted the child backward, reared on his hind legs and jumped the fence. Cousins fled in all directions.
With horns lowered like a white charger, Billy began challenging his presumed adversaries. Cousin Bill jumped up onto a fence railing at the pig pen and Mike rocketed back down the hill to the farm house. The other cousins scattered through the woods.
Billy targeted Mike and, with head down, came charging after him. Scrambling as fast as his little legs could carry him, he passed the cars, the Banty henhouse, dodged the tractors’ rear tires, and flew by the woodshed, constantly zigging and zagging to avoid those powerful prongs. It all was a blur. His frenzied pace combined with the occasional backward glance created an awkward sense of balance. Any misstep and he’d be gored by a goat.
The peaceful serenity of the country morning was shattered by yells for help as the duo crashed into the barnyard. Mike kept just a few steps ahead of those pointed horns. Billy jerked his head from side to side and jabbed his horns forward hoping to snag the boy’s backside.
With his attentions to the rear, Mike stumbled into the flock of now disconcerted hens . . . and collided with Red! That cock, on a good day, didn’t like to be interfered with let alone run over and kicked. He retaliated in kind. Out came the spurs and the flogging commenced.
Being stuck in the middle of the mayhem, Mike became frantic! On one side was a maniac goat rearing and rutting, and on the other was a rabid rooster with his hackles up ready for war. Wings wacked as claws and spurs spiked Mike’s legs. Hooves and horns bruised his backside. Squawks, screams, crows and bleats rose through the ruckus.
The commotion penetrated the farmhouse unnerving its guests. In moments the porch was filled with spectators. Aunts and Uncles clamored like a crowd at the Roman Coliseum when the lions were winning. Improperly appraising the situation, one of the uncles shouted, “Grab a stick!” (There was little time for Mike to search for a stick, being preoccupied with other things).
Finally, Dad and the gentle giant, Uncle Marion, stormed the front gate, chased off Red and harnessed the goat. Mother grabbed Mike and consoled him while inspecting for damages. There was little to none short of scars from damaged pride.
So began an early August summer day on Grandpa’s farm.
By Michael Alumbaugh, © August 2017
