Acting the Goat

I’m having one of those moments when I wonder how I got here, and I start to question my life decisions. The stuffed goat stares at me as I sit on my boss’ bed. It’s weird, but I find myself talking to the dead creature.

“So, you know my boss Francesca.”

It looks at me blankly, which shouldn’t phase me because it is a dead goat, but somehow I feel the need to explain further.

“Francesca is the one who shot you.” Perhaps this is insensitive, but, dead or not, he has the right to know the facts about his new roommate. It must be my imagination, but now its black face looks a bit longer, and his head seems to be angled more toward the floor.

When the delivery guy had carried the goat into the bedroom and placed it below the window, we’d both looked at the dead animal for about a minute. In the end, he’d shrugged and said, “That’s a weird place for a goat.” I had to agree, but it wasn’t the placing of the goat that disturbed me. Why Francesca wanted a reminder of the incident was beyond me.

“Your death caused a social media storm,” I tell the goat. “Francesca was the most hated woman in the whole of the UK.” It’s true, politicians, celebrities and the general public queued up to condemn the bloodthirsty American. People who’d never even seen a feral goat suddenly became passionate advocates of the herd’s right to roam the Ardnamurchan peninsula without enduring foreign fire. Personally, after accompanying Francesca on that trip, I considered the goats to be welcome to that wet, boggy and bleak corner of Scotland.

“See,” I say and show him the kill photo she posted. I know how crazy this sounds, but I feel compelled to explain the situation. I start reading some of the comments.

“Very brave, was the goat armed?”

“I hope that Goat’s brother rams you up the arse.”

“Even the first minister of Scotland joined in. She wants to ban goat hunting altogether.” I’m babbling now. Why am I desperate for the approval of a stuffed goat? The goat’s expression seems to change. He looks less forlorn than before, and I could swear that he now has his chin in the air in a way that seems almost proud. Maybe I am going mad.

“I spent an entire month answering hate posts and emails. Francesca decided to fight fire with fire, and a lot of people got hurt in the fallout.” I wasn’t proud of the rumours I started about some of the protestors.

“It’s tough working for Francesca,” I continue. “She wants all my time. I mean look at me waiting for a goat delivery on a Saturday afternoon.” My voice goes high pitched with emotion. The goat looks at me, and I hear the words, “Dry your eyes lassie, she killed me for fun.” In a gruff Scottish accent. However, I don’t see it’s black lips move over it’s visible and sharp bottom row of teeth.

“Trust me. It’s not just goats Francesca treats badly,” I protest, and the goat appears to turn his head to the side as if concentrating on listening.

“Nothing is ever good enough for her. Last week, she made me fire the cleaner for leaving a hair on the bath.”

The goat shakes his head.

“And, I missed Grandmother’s 80th birthday party because she couldn’t spare me for a single day. Granny might never see another birthday.”

The goat makes a “Tsk,” noise as if to indicate that I am pathetic.

“Most of all,” I say. “She makes me feel like crap every minute of every day, and I wonder if I’m just as bad as she is.”

“Aye. Well, we all make our choices,” says the goat. A stuffed goat is judging me.

Francesca arrives home and bounces into the bedroom saying, “Has my goat arrived?”

I feel the goat’s eyes upon me as I say, “Yes.”

“Get off my bed,” she says to me as she caresses the horns on the stuffed goat. It plunges a horn into the soft flesh of her upper arm.

“Ouch,” she says surprised at what appears to be her own clumsiness. I can’t prevent the giggle that escapes my lips and Francesca looks ready for one of her famous tantrums.

Clean

“Thanks, Johnny,” said Frannie’s mum as she touched his hand. Johnny felt bad because he’d always liked her Mum. By contrast, her Dad took his tea with a look of pure disappointment. There was a knock on the door and glad to get away from the disapproving old Bastard, Johnny rushed to open it. His relief was short lived as he was greeted by Frannie’s sister, Julie.
“Johnny,” she said. “You look awful.” Julie didn’t wait for an invitation and marched into the living room as if she owned the place.
“I told you this was going to happen,” she said to her parents. “I knew Frannie couldn’t stay clean.”
“You and me both,” replied her Father who had placed his tea, untouched, on the coffee table.
Johnny had never understood why Frannie put up with her Dad and Sister who’d never offered a single word of encouragement through her drug rehab.
“Frannie needs our help and support,” said her Mum.
“And, if she doesn’t come?” asked Julie.
“Then I’ll wait here until she does come,” she replied with quiet dignity.
Julie raised her eyes at her father who, a man of few words, simply shook his head.
Johnny’s instinct to protect Frannie rose up involuntarily, and he had to remind himself that she was now a complete bitch who deserved everything that was in store for her. “Don’t worry, she’ll come,” he said. Of course, she’d come. He’d told her he was planning a small get together for her birthday.
Another knock at the door heralded the arrival of Frannie’s two closest Triathlon buddies. They’d been unaware of Frannie’s unhealthy past as an addict until Johnny had brought them up to speed earlier that day. He still got the impression they didn’t entirely trust him. Who knows what Frannie had told them about her deadbeat boyfriend. He introduced them to Julie who would do a much better job at convincing them that Frannie was a mess.
“The worst thing is,” said Julie. “She’ll probably deny the whole thing.”
The triathlon buddies looked suitably shocked, but let’s face it, obsessing about swimming, cycling and running was hardly normal behaviour either. Sometimes, Johnny thought that Frannie was just channelling her addictive nature in a different, and quite frankly, boring direction. He, by contrast, still liked to have fun, and while he would have preferred to have fun with Frannie, he would make do with whoever was around. That wasn’t why she was kicking him out though.
“I still love you, but I’m not in love with you,” she’d said. Drunk, high Frannie had never spoken in pathetic cliches like that.
“Are you sleeping with your boss?” he’d asked.
“No. I just think we want different things from life now.”
Johnny just wanted their old life back.
“Stay in the spare room until you sort out a new place.” She was so fucking reasonable and seemed oblivious to his rage at being so easily discarded.
One more knock and Johnny admitted the boss on whom he’d focussed his jealousy. It was gratifying to see him devoid of his customary confidence as he moved awkwardly among the other guests. He owned the restaurant where Frannie worked as a chef, and somehow, she was unable to see that the creep just wanted to get into her pants. Well, perhaps he wasn’t so keen now.
“I can’t believe that Frannie would …” he seemed unable to finish the sentence, but luckily Julie was there to help.
“You better believe it. Same old, same old with Frannie.”
Everyone but Frannie had arrived. The general hum of judgmental, pseudo caring conversation stopped abruptly when they heard her key in the lock. She smiled at the sight of her friends and family, and this triggered a feeling of deep regret in Johnny. He wanted to stop this now and tell the truth, but he felt like he was choking. He hadn’t suffered a panic attack like this since his unsuccessful attempt to kick the drugs. To his dismay, the lies had developed a momentum of their own. Julie, of course, was first to speak.
“Frannie, we’re here to stage an intervention.”

Bite

We’re both running across the lawn, and very close to safety when I feel a sharp pain in my foot which makes me scream out loud. I increase my pace until we reach the house, and as I slam the door shut behind me, my girlfriend Isla shouts, “Bella.” I groan and mumble, “I don’t fucking believe this.” But, I open the door just wide enough for the yappy little dog to squeeze through. I close the door again, lock three bolts, lean my back on it and pant with exhaustion. Bella barks her high pitched, stupid small dog bark.

“Why did you scream like that?” says Isla.

“Let me see,” I say trying to act cool. “Perhaps because there was a pack of crazy, hungry zombies chasing me across the lawn.”

She looks at me with a sceptical expression, “That doesn’t normally make you scream. In fact, I’ve never heard you scream before.”

It’s true. I usually conserve all my energy for running when I’m getting chased by Zombies. I don’t yell, scream or swear as I’m struggling to breathe. I know they can’t move that quick, but let’s face it, I’m a big guy, and I wasn’t built for speed.

I try looking at my feet without moving my head, but I don’t have clown feet, so that doesn’t work. I push my back further into the door and move my feet out in front as if I’m just trying to get comfortable. I take a quick look, and I see a puncture in my left converse. I’m shocked to see a red tinge to the otherwise white material surrounding the hole. I tuck my feet back in as if this will prevent Isla from seeing the wound. This is based on the flawed logic that if I can’t see it then neither can she.

How long have I got if it’s zombie bite? Possibly, two, maybe three minutes at the most before I start foaming at the mouth. I’ve seen this happen often enough to know the script. Once the symptoms begin, I’ll be compelled to attack Isla. Obviously, I need to leave the house for her protection. Just then, I hear a Zombie fall against the door, and I scream again. I can’t go out there.

“More screaming,” says Isla.

She picks up her precious Bella and rubs her head in affection, but she never takes her eyes off me. I look at the dog’s sharp little teeth. Maybe it was the dog that bit me, after all, it wouldn’t be the first time that the nasty little rat had taken a nip. You know, I think it probably was the dog. Some zombies were lying on the lawn, but everyone says the sleepers don’t bite.

Just then the dog jumps from Isla’s hands and lands on my injured foot. I emit another embarrassingly high pitched scream and give it a little kick on the backside. Isla, of course, is furious. She stamps on my foot and shouts, ‘Leave Bella alone.”

All this extra pressure has made my foot bleed more, and I look at the blood stain in horror. Isla follows my gaze and covers her mouth in shock.

“It’s not what you think,” I say. Her eyes grow wide.

“It was the bloody dog.” I grab her by the shoulders. She shrugs me off and undoes the bolts. “Isla please,” I whimper. She opens the door and pushes me out. As I said, I’m a big guy and could easily overpower her, but her cold attitude has knocked the fight out of me.

So, I’m outside, and the indifference of the zombies lets me know that I am indeed infected. At the moment, I can still think, and the pain of how easily Isla discarded me is deep and raw. I open the letterbox and look into the house. Evidently, Isla has picked up the hateful dog again, and all I can see through my tiny peephole is the tiny dagger-like teeth in its open mouth. I spot the tell-tale foaming, and I bang on the door and shout, “The dog is infected. Throw it out quick.” I shout it again and again until I’m weeping, hammering the door, and repeating, “throw it out.”. Isla has time to save herself, but she doesn’t, and I hear her scream as Bella attacks. I realise that Isla couldn’t bring herself to sacrifice the dog.

Friends

Garret wasn’t what Susan expected. I could tell by the no-nonsense way she introduced herself that she feared he would be a spoiled brat. All the new nannies from the agency were the same. They start out a bit Mary Poppins assuming that the three-year-old son of a world-famous actress must be a little monster. Of course, he is a little monster, but they underestimate his acting abilities. I’ve seen it again and again. He clutched me, his supposedly beloved teddy bear, and looked at Susan with wide doe-like eyes. He allowed a single tear to overflow and track down his smooth, soft cheek.
“I want my Mummy,” he said.
I could see Susan’s heart melt, and the strict Nanny like figure was gone. She was a total pushover, and I saw that any hope for protection from her would be in vain.
“Poor baby,” she said. “Let’s make cookies.”
“Yaaaay,” shouted Garrett and tossed me onto the floor where I landed painfully on my nose. He stepped on me as he ran into the kitchen grasping Susan’s hand. Seriously, this girl didn’t have a clue. Garret plus cookie dough equalled total disaster. “It was going to end in tears,” I thought from my undignified position on the floor.

One hour later and Garrett stomped back into the bedroom. He kicked me into the air and shouted. “Stupid Teddy,” leapt onto his bed, lay on his stomach and started sobbing loudly.
Susan followed him in and sighed in an exaggerated fashion. She didn’t have a clue what to do until she spotted me sprawled on the bookshelf.
“Poor Teddy,” she said in a patronising fashion.
“Don’t bring me back into this,” I thought. “You made your bed.”
The problem is, being a teddy bear, I don’t have much self-determination. She was bringing me into her mess whether I wanted it or not.
“He wants a hug,” she said.
“No. I blooming don’t.” I thought.
“I don’t like Teddy,” said the charming Garrett, and the feeling was entirely mutual.
“You’ll make him cry,” said Susan. There was every chance he would make me cry, but not by ignoring me.
She picked me up, held me out, wiggled me from side to side and said in a gruff voice. “Please Garrett, I want a hug.” Evidently, that’s how she thought a teddy would speak. Idiot.
She walked towards him and thrust me into his face. He didn’t have the wide eyes of a Disney cartoon character now. He looked at me through narrow, calculating slits and breathed in that loud, snotty, way that he did after crying. This was the point where things could go either way. Given the autonomy, I would hide it out until it was clear that it was nap time. Then, if only I were able, I might hop over for a cuddle.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t napping time, and he took a swipe at my face before launching into another impressive crying fit. It was humiliating to be rejected like this, and I blamed the gormless Susan for setting me up for it. She let me go, and I fell onto the bed and watched her as she tried to think. She wasn’t very bright, so the effort brought a frown to her face, and she stuck her tongue out like a young child learning to write. I was relieved for her when, after what seemed like an eternity, the concentration left her face, and she smiled. My relief was short lived as, after rummaging in her backpack, she brought out a blue, stuffed, bunny rabbit. He was about the same size as me but his fur was luxurious, and he had great floppy ears. I started to panic. How could I compete with him?
Susan put on a cute, high-pitched voice for the Bunny. “Hey, Garret. I can be your new best friend.” This was madness. I was Garret’s best friend. I’d been there from the start. Let’s face it, where was the bunny when he was teething, and don’t even talk to me about the toilet training.
“Bunny is rubbish,” said Garret with a loud sniff.
“Too right,” I thought.
“I want Teddy.” He held me close.
Susan and the bunny left the room, and Garret and I had the best nap ever.

Fear

He felt just a little more intoxicated than he’d planned. Bob looked at his half a pint of bitter and thought, “better ease up a bit.” He flicked through his dog-eared book and confirmed his post-it notes were still in place. His new dog, Duke, put his head on Bob’s feet and the unfamiliar weight of him was reassuring.

Alfred Bloom joined him at the table, slurped at his gin and tonic, and performed an exaggerated lip smack of pleasure. Bob bristled with irritation.

“Evening Alfred. How did you enjoy the book?”

“Bob, what’s the first rule of book club?” He tapped his nose confidentially.

Bob wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of answering this, but just then, Edith arrived and replied on his behalf.

“Don’t talk about the book club.” Edith giggled, and the sound was so infectious that Bob laughed even though he hated this old joke. She looked lovely, and sometimes Bob forgot that she was an old-timer just like him. Her hair was white, but her short style was elegant and fashionable. Her skin wasn’t smooth, but her smile was full of mischief, and she made him laugh like did when he was a teenager. He wished they’d never split up.

“Well, Alfie. I suppose at our age you have to believe that the old ones are the best ones.” Bob stopped laughing when he heard her use a pet name for the odious Alfred. He knew they’d been dating, but he’d hoped that a couple of visits to the silver screenings at the local cinema wouldn’t be enough to woo a woman like Edith.

Her dog, Rocky, found Duke below the table, and they sniffed at each other. Bob looked at Rocky and wondered how he could have been so scared of such a sweet little collie that he’d made Edith choose between them. What a plonker. She’d been right to choose the dog.

Edith didn’t notice Duke, but she let Rocky’s lead go as she said, “Alfie, Did you like the book?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Alfred holding up his copy of Pet Sematary by Stephen King. The book was pristine and appeared to have no notes other than a rather angry looking spelling correction of the title.

Edith clutched her battered copy.

“I was glad of an excuse to reread this. Thanks for picking it, Bob.”

He was grateful that she’d introduced him to this author. The book club tended to be more literary in their selections, but he’d learned from Edith to be more open-minded and now he, like her, expected people to judge books on their merits. However, he was relying on his suspicion that Alfred would disappoint in this regard.

Each member commented, and the opinions on the novel were varied and thoughtful. Although some were repelled by the horror at the heart of the story, most readers agreed it was an insightful exploration of grief. Then it was Alfred’s turn.

“Juvenile twaddle,” he said. “I gave up when the first pet came back to life. Only an idiot would care enough about a dead dog or cat to haul them up to an Indian burial ground.”

“Oh, Alfie,” thought Bob with a smile.

“Really,” said Edith and reached below the table to clutch Rocky around the neck.

This was the start of the biggest argument since Joyce Green had chosen Fifty Shades of Grey (a choice which had resulted in the controversial, and hard to enforce, no erotica rule). Bob enjoyed the debate and periodically went to the bar and refreshed his bitter and Edith’s prosecco. He raised a glass when Edith said, “Alfred, you’re nothing but a small-minded snob.” She wasn’t calling him Alfie now. Alfred put on his scarf with a flourish before donning his trench coat and fedora.

“This club is a disgrace. Pulp horror is not, and never will be, literature.” He flounced out of the room. Edith looked shocked, and perhaps she felt she’d gone too far. Just then, however, Duke stood up from below the table, licked her hand and gazed at her with his beautiful, mournful spaniel eyes. Bob knew that she loved spaniels.

“Oh hello.” She cheered up considerably. “Who are you?” She ruffled Duke’s ears.

“This is Duke. My new dog,“ said Bob with pride. Edith looked up, and he saw that her eyes were wide with surprise. She smiled, and he knew that the expensive and initially terrifying, exposure therapy had been worth it.


Island Life

“It’s horizontal rain again,” said Sarah in a flat voice devoid of her characteristic good humour. I was writing up my notes from my day in the field and was annoyed by her interruption. However, she‘d broke my concentration, so I looked out the window of our hideous, seventies built cube of a bungalow and saw that, not unusually, a strong north wind was blowing the heavy rain over the endless white-foamed, choppy sea. I admitted it was a bit bleak.

“A bit bleak,” she replied. “You’ve got a real gift for understatement.”

I sighed and leaned back in the wooden chair I’d made during my short-lived, but intense love affair with carpentry.

“Come on, love. Loads of people dream of a having a sea view from their living room window.”

“Yeah, but most people would wake up screaming if their dream dropped them in a housing estate in the middle of the North Sea.” I heard despair in her voice rather than the gleeful animation that once characterised our verbal sparring.

We hadn’t moved to the Shetland islands by choice. The cuts in the forestry service on the mainland were deep, and it was Shetland or no job.

Then, we could still joke together.

“So,” she’d said. “We need to branch out, or be axed.”

“Yes dear,” I’d replied. “It appears we are being uprooted.”

Sarah took great pleasure in telling her friends that her husband, the tree surgeon, was relocating to the notoriously treeless Shetland islands. We’d never been that far north, and it was easy to laugh from the comfort of our beautiful old cottage in the tame landscape of the Trossachs.

A year later, Sarah had lost her laughter, and I would have done almost anything to get it back. I use the word almost as when I look back it’s clear I should have taken her back home, but I was obsessed by my project to reforest the island. In my childhood, I had fallen prey to many short-lived preoccupations such as perfecting a 180 heel flip on my skateboard or building a CB radio from components sourced in obscure electronic magazines. My worried parents would nag me to spend time on school work, hang out with friends, and even begged me to watch TV. However, when I focussed on a project, I would survive on just a few hours of sleep each night.

My folks were delighted when I married Sarah, and they believed I had, at last, grown out of my odd, obsessive behaviour. However, I knew Sarah was my simply my latest, and greatest obsession. I hadn’t changed at all.

Perhaps, if we’d stayed in the Trossachs, then everything would have been fine. I could have passed my strange projects off as hobbies, and Sarah’s friends and family would easily have compensated for my periods of inattention.

Unfortunately, we moved to the barren landscape of the Shetlands. My job was to experiment with growing different species to coax a forest from the inhospitable soil that could withstand the salt-infused and wind battered atmosphere. Of course, I became obsessed, how could I not?

Now, while trees will never thrive on this Island, I have my forest, and the recipe has been successfully replicated in various corners of the island. Shetland has trees once again, but it means little to me. Sarah couldn’t cope with the emptiness of the endless sea surrounding the featureless terrain. She could see no beauty In the acres of flat boggy moorland, and no one could appreciate the concrete ugliness of the village in which we lived. She took her own life, and since then my mind is full of thoughts of what should have been. That’s my obsession now.

A Pair of Star Crossed Mice

I think my little Jemima will take the crown this year. She’s already won best in show eight times. One more win, and she’ll be mouse of the year. She is a beautiful black mouse, and as laid down in the standards, her sleek coat is evenly coloured throughout her whole body. Her tiny dark eyes shine with an almost human-like intelligence and compassion. When I whisper into her tulip shaped ears, I could almost believe she understands everything I say.

I’m hoping that victory for Jemima will lead to salvation for the National Mouse Club. That might sound dramatic, but the current committee are ruining this historic association. The chairman, Kevin Green, and his merry band are inexperienced and altogether too arrogant to listen to an old-timer like me.

“Bill. It wasn’t personal. No hard feelings, eh?” Kevin had said on the evening he stabbed me in the back. I taught that young man everything he knows about mouse fancying, so it was a bitter pill when he, with no warning, stood against me at the national AGM. He gave a speech on how the club had to move with the times and adapt the strict guidelines laid down by our founder Walter Maxly. Now the club welcomes all comers and runs sessions on such diverse and idiotic subjects as cross-breeding to create new species, mice as a pet for children and, unbelievably, a lecture on gerbils and hamsters. I’ve taken a step back from the club and focussed my energies on breeding traditional black mice. Attention to detail and a great deal of effort has led to the production of a generation of the most superlative mice that I’ve ever seen. Of the current crop of siblings, undoubtedly, Jemima is the best.

So, at the final show of the year, my girl has already taken the prize in the best of breed. Now the judging begins for best in show. She’s up against Kevin’s mouse, Mickey. I’m not joking, he really has called his show mouse Mickey. That kind of blatant populism and trivialisation should lead to instant disqualification and I fantasise about adding this into the rulebook when I’m re-elected. The judge holds up Mickey and Jemima together. Mickey is a broken marked mouse which means that he is white with uneven black splodges. I’ve never been that keen on the marked varieties, but there were some excellent, banded mice competing in his class. I suspect that favouritism got him this far, but marked mice are always the bridesmaid.

 

##

 

I hate the touch of the clinical, impersonal judge. He lifts me up by my tail and holds me in his big, cold hands. I look over to the right, and I’m cheered at the sight of Mickey in his other hand. Mickey is super cute and has these fantastic black spots all over his white body. He looks across at me and says, “Hey Jemima, this guy needs to warm his hands.”

I giggle. Although I’m stressed, Mickey can always make me laugh. We’ve been meeting at mouse shows all year and have even rubbed noses through our cage bars a few times. That was nice.

When my owner Bill cradles me in his gentle hands and tells me of his troubles, I long to offer him words of comfort, but of course he can’t hear my tiny mouse voice. So instead, I need to win each contest and help him regain his rightful place. That’s a lot of pressure for a small mouse, and as the season goes on, I’m starting to feel it.

There is a strange sensation in my tail. I think it has developed a slight kink. This can happen when a mouse is unsettled, but you don’t win shows with a less than perfect tail.

“My tail is kinking Mickey,” I say.

He senses my desperation and replies, “Don’t worry babes. I got this.”

Mickey sacrifices the contest by biting the judge hard on the finger. I barely have a chance to think, “My hero,” before the judge drops both of us. There is chaos in the room. Bill is shouting about disqualification while Kevin is laughing uncontrollably. Mickey and I meet up below the table. There is no cage between us, and no feuding owners to stop us.