A Childhood Memory: Attacked by a goat

This is my 499th Post!

Scarlet recently reminded me that I was going to tell my story of being attacked by a goat when I was a kid. We'll, there's more to the story than just a goat. Enjoy.

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My Daddy deer hunted when we lived in Petersburg. Every Saturday during season he would get up before dawn and head down to the Nottaway River, to a farm in which the land was leased each fall to his hunting club. There, hunters would be stationed along two-track roads and at the edge of fields while dogs ran deer in the swamp in the hope that they’d come out in the open and the closest hunter would fill Bambi with buckshot. I went hunting with him once, a boring experience which cured me as this type of hunting. My brother and I sat on the ground, wrapped up in a blanket while Daddy sat with his pump 12 gauge at the ready, listening carefully to the sound of the dogs. That day, no deer can near us and by late morning it was over. We drove back in to a shack where the deer that had been shot were slung up and men busy with saws and butcher knives, carving up the meat and then wrapping it in butcher paper. They’d gotten three deer that day and everyone went home with several packages of meat.

My dad shot several deer during the three years we lived in Virginia. For years, he had the anthers of one deer mounted on the wall in his office. He also shot a turkey. He was near the river and the bird fell into the water. I loved hearing him tell the story stripping down and going into the freezing water to retrieve his turkey. There weren’t many turkeys around back then and from what I know, this was the only one he ever shot. That Christmas, we ate the old Tom, carefully watching for stray buckshot.

Belonging to the hunting club meant that one had obligations to fulfill in addition to paying dues. You had to take your turn feeding and caring for the dogs. Sometimes Dad would let us ride along. We’d drive out southeast of town on the highway, sometimes stopping at a gas station for a Coca-Cola. I remember Dad was furious when they went up to a dime a bottle. Deposit was two cent, but we always had a few bottles in the truck to exchange. We left the highway and went down a series of rural roads through fields of tobacco and corn and peanuts till we finally turned off onto a two-track that ran beside a field. In a few hundred yards, we were deep in the woods. We drove on a bit more till we got to a shady area where the underbrush had been cleared. There in pens, the dogs were kept. The hounds were all yelping as we arrived, in anticipation of running around and of having food. Dad cleaned out their cages and gave them food, which drew the dogs back into their pens. Water came from a pitcher pump. My Dad had to get primed, but after the water started flowing, I was allowed to pump water into the buckets.

One particular day still sticks in my memory. The well had gone dry. There were a number of metal water containers and Dad loaded them into the trunk and we drove further into the woods to a house that looked like none I’d ever seen. I thought I’d seen poor houses before, but this house sitting a mile or two back in the woods, was a new experience. The house was constructed of unpainted wood which, thinking back on it today, had obviously been uncured. Over time the lumber warped and twisted leaving gapping holes in the walls. At the time I didn’t know this and thought the guy could have used a square and level when building. About half the panes in the two windows on the front of the shack had cardboard instead of glass. Smoke was coming from a pipe, they obviously cooked with wood. Chickens, dogs, and hogs ran around and clothes hung from a line that was stretched between trees. As we drove up, several barefoot kids that looked to be about my age took off around back. My dad got out of the car and called out to a man who waved him on over. He took the water containers and followed the man to a pitcher pump where they filled the containers. I got out of the car and started to walk around the house, to where the kids were, when it saw me.

I quickly learned why Satan is often depicted as a goat when I looked up I saw pure hate in the eyes of this beast. His head was head down and he was charging straight at me. Even today, I remember the goat being much taller than me. At the time he seemed to be the size of a small horse. That probably wasn’t the case, but I was small for my age and, I think, was in the second grade at this time. Paralyzed with fear as the beast approached at full steam, his horns aimed for my gut, I was was unable to utter a sound. In quiet desperation I prayed, “help,” as the goat came closer. My prayer was answered for when the goat was only a few feet from me, his chain which I had not seen came to the end. I can see it today in slow motion even though it occurred in a split second. The goat that had been so intent on bucking me was jerked back by the chain around his neck so hard that he was flipped on his back. When he landed, his feet were still kicking the air above. About that point, Dad and the man realized something was wrong and started yelling for me to get away from the goat.

Dad placed the water containers in the trunk and gave the man a few dollar bills, thanking him for the water. “Thank you, sir,” the man said, obviously grateful for the cash. His children curiously started reappearing from around the house, staying well behind their dad as we stared at one another. When we got into the car, they finally waved. Although we lived only a dozen miles or so from each other, we were from two different worlds.

When I got home, I told my mother about the goat and how I’d bravely stood still until it came to the end of its chain and how funny it looked flipping on his back, his legs kicking in the air. Then I started telling her about the shack and how the guy needed to learn how to use a square and level. Dad had let me brag of my bravery, even though he knew that I had been scared to death, but he wasn’t going to let me belittle the man. “Some people got to make do with what they got,” he said, “we should be grateful that he let us draw water for the dogs.”

For years, I wondered about those kids. Although I joked about their house to my friends, I always felt guilty about it and wondered what it would be like to live their lives. I had never seen such poverty and felt blessed to have what we had. At the time, the schools in Virginia were still segregated, but that would all change in another year or two when integration arrived. At that point, those kids would be sent to school with white kids like me. How did they fit in? And today I wonder what those kids who grew up in a world more like my great-grandparents than my childhood world are doing as middle aged adults? As for the goat, I wish I could have been there when he was barbequed; I’d enjoyed gnawing his bones as I counted my blessings.