She was a monster.
Six feet tall, blood-red eyes with frightening, rectangular pupils, cloven hooves ready to slash us to pieces and long, razor-sharp horns itching to gore us.
At least that’s what my three siblings and I thought of Natalie, our innocuously-named, but seemingly demented pet goat, 25 years ago.
Natalie came to us innocently enough. My aunt and uncle, noticing a distinct lack of cloven-hoofed animals on our farm besides the bovine variety, decided we needed a goat.
So, they stopped at a goat farm on their way from the big city of Calgary and picked out a seemingly docile specimen. Freeing her in the back of their motorhome for the two-hour drive may just be what pushed her over the edge. But I speculate.
The fact is, the minute the door opened on the RV, Natalie bolted. Imagine the scene: three kids, 12 and under, anxiously wringing their hands and shedding tears, two moms comforting their wailing babies and two 30-something dads mobilizing themselves for the hunt.
Armed with flashlights, we all headed into the bush to save the terrified, wild-eyed creature before she was attacked by coyotes.
In retrospect, we shouldn’t have worried. No self-respecting predator would have gotten close enough to harm Natalie. They wouldn’t have dared.
There are many stories I could share about Natalie, who wandered free on our quarter section for about three years after befriending our dog, King, but space is limited.
Memorable moments include:
• Natalie, spying my mom enjoying her after-dinner tea on the step, tearing across the yard and leaping onto the plywood, slipping and sliding as she plowed her horns into my mom’s backside. The resulting pandemonium was unforgettable as well, as my broom-wielding, raging mom chased Natalie out of the farmyard.
• My sister still remembers how Natalie picked her up by the horns and attempted to shake her, while she shrieked in terror.
• My little brother and I, five and nine respectively, regularly played into Natalie’s predatorial nature. Lacing our shoes tightly, we would race out the door, seeking a safe destination where the goat couldn’t reach us. I remember running, heart pumping as adrenaline coursing through my veins spurred me away from the clanging of Natalie’s cow bell. Climbing a tree and reaching down to help my little brother before Natalie could butt us was always thrilling. The goat would pace below, knowing we would have to come down for more of a chase.
It wasn’t all bad. Natalie sometimes adopted a more friendly attitude. For example, my brother and I planned an overnight adventure in a fort we had crafted out of old sheets, rope and a couple of trees. All went well until Natalie decided to park her hind quarters on my pillow, and wouldn’t budge no matter how we tried to force her to.
I went home last weekend for Thanksgiving. Amid the conversation, there was the usual reference to our long-lost goat. The years have added humour to her memory, and the demon-goat has become a favourite subject of my nephews.
Funny how that happens.
