Bullfighting

Montoya, my four year old gelding, provided me with his version of bullfighting last night:

I am a cop. I get home late. Tired. Walk in barn. Notice that goats have gotten out of their pen and are inside Montoya's paddock. Hmmmmm.....that was probably entertaining at some point. Goats are happy to see me. I am not as thrilled to see them. Herding goats is not an activity anyone wants to do after midnight. Goats want in their stall, but cannot figure out how to get into their stall so they are huddled in the stall with the chickens. Huddled... Hmmmm...


Note that Montoya is in the stall beside them looking a bit peeved. There is a board across the chicken's stall doorway to keep His Royal Highness out of the chicken scratch. Goats are huddled safely behind this bar. Feed horses so His Royal Highness is occupied while I try to figure out how to easily move four billy goats into their paddock. Decide best course of action would be to just lock goats in chicken stall and figure out where they got out when the sun comes up.


Go to shut stall door. One goat decides that I really want to barbecue him and thus he must race out of stall before I can shut door. Other goats panic and want to follow but I slam door in their faces. Now they are screaming. Chickens are clucking because goats are stepping on them. His Royal Highness has decided that this is FAR more interesting than his supper, so he exits his back door to come investigate.


HRH notes the loose goat. I swear, horses have "Spock" eyebrows because His Royal Highness gave Nitwit Goat the"Spock" eyebrow. Nitwit Goat screamed in terror. HRH lowered his head and charged Nitwit. I yelled at HRH. Colt looked at me with complete innocence. Nitwit continued to bleat in terror while his caged friends scaled the wall of the stall. His Royal Highness peaked into their stall. There was a moment of silence. I yelled at HRH. He gave me a look that only chaplains and little old ladies should wear. I yelled at him again and ordered him back in his stall. He shrugged and walked inside. I opened back door to goat stall. Nitwit was too scared to enter. He continued to run around bleating while his compadres answered in sympathy. I tried to herd him inside.


Convinced that I was the Spawn Of Satan with a Fork, Nitwit Goat ran from me in blind panic. Barbecued goat was beginning to sound good. Nitwit began running in circles farther and farther from the opened stall door. This proved too much temptation for His Royal Highness. Like a gray Specter of the Night On Wings, His Royal Highness glided out of the stall. Nitwit decided that perhaps I was not the only Spawn of Satan in the pasture. He screamed and ran for the barn. With a move that would make any cutting horse proud, His Royal Highness swooped in front of him. This was the stuff of Nitwit Nightmares. Alone, away from the herd, a Giant Gray Demon toyed with him. Nitwit was beside himself with horror. His Royal Highness was having the time of his life..... until I yelled at him. The Choir Boy stopped and looked at me.


"Huh?"


"Quit chasin' the goat. We'll be out here all night."


"Not if I catch him."


"Touche"


"So can I kill him?"


"No, then we'll have a dead goat in the pasture."


"I have no problem with that."


"I'll give you an apple if you'll go in your stall."


"DEAL!"


So His Royal Highness hustled to his stall. Nitwit grabbed that opportunity to race into the goat stall. And I finally got to go to bed.