| Killing a Goat |
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| When I was a young boy of about 11, I lived on a large farm in northern Bladen County. I have since moved away from the farm but I have many vivid memories of my lazy days in the country. One Sunday afternoon I was riding my bicycle down the long dirt path that connected my house to the main road. I could always be found riding my bicycle on Sundays because no one else was ever around to talk with or play games in the woods like we would on any other day. Sunday on the farm was a day of rest for most or for visiting family outside of the boundaries of the farm. I believe that even the livestock and birds that lived there along with me chose the day to sleep in their roosts or barns, for there was only the occasional sound of chirping or gobbling, or mooing. My neighbor used every Sunday to recover from a hang over brought on by a long night of partying and little sleep. So as usual, I was by myself riding in the hot summer air. I could see tire tracks that I had made on previous runs in the dirt and I would often try and stay in the grooves just to pass the time. Half way up the dirt path I started to pass the old building that we kept farm equipment under. It was more of a long slender wooden shelter with a tin roof and open front. We called it �The Barn� and it was a place that we would all congregate and talk after a long day of working in the hot sun. Nothing seemed unusual as I passed but up ahead on the dirt path I could see a white work truck approaching me. I stopped my peddling and put one foot on the ground so I could let the truck pass by me, but instead the truck came to a halt about 30 feet in front of where I stood. 3 men, 1 of which I didn�t know, jumped out of the cab of the truck and immediately ran to the tailgate where I could hear them unlatch it with a rusty squeak. One of the men, who shall remain nameless but was burly and could always be seen in a holy white t-shirt and trademark black sunglass under his green John Deere hat, leaped into the bed of the truck and grasped something with both arms. The other two men watched from the ground but I could not make out what he was wrestling with. It seemed like he was trying to lift a heavy bag of feed or heavy piece of equipment. It wasn�t until I saw the movement of something white in the bed of the truck that I realized what it was. A fattened goat, and it was kicking and bleating and giving the poor man standing in the back of the truck quite a thumping. After a short struggle to untie the rope that was tied around the goats neck and fastened to some kind of metal hook in the truck that I couldn�t see, the man finally got himself and the goat off the bed of the truck and to ground level. His sunglasses were hanging by one ear and his green hat was crooked because of one well placed hoofed kick by a very angry goat. Now, the two other men seized control after they had both enjoyed the great bout between man and animal but shared a first-class chuckle while doing so. They led the shaggy white goat across the dirt path before me and towards �The Barn� while the beaten man followed close behind holding the length of rope. I began to wonder what was the purpose of the event. It was not uncommon for farm workers to keep animals near �The Barn� but it was mainly chickens they used for late night cock fighting. The men stopped with the goat on the edge of the concrete that made up the floor of �The Barn� and they threw the rope over a large hook that had been hammered into one of the wooden rafters and was used to skin and clean deer killed during the winter hunting season. One of the men tied a loop in the end of the rope and they then proceeded to pick up the goat. The goat must have weighed a great deal because they all seemed to struggle to pick the goat up chest high. While two of the men had the goat at a respectable height, the goat�s hind legs were pulled through the loop of rope. The rope was then pulled tight so that the animal�s legs could not escape. Then in unison the men dropped the goat allowing it to dangle upside down from the wooden rafters and the image has since stayed with me, unwelcome in my memory. The rafters began to screech under the goat�s weight and all 3 men stood back and watched the animal thrash about, their heads moving back and forth as if they were watching the arm of a grandfather clock. After a few minutes, blood began to trickle from the goat�s nose and lips and flowed into a 5-gallon bucket that we used to hold deer guts while they were being cleaned. My mouth dropped and I froze in terror. I had lived on the farm for as long as I could remember and I had often ventured out into the pigpens to see the annual slaughtering. The single gunshot to the skull of the pig never bothered me even when the eyeballs would shoot out in two directions from their sockets. Even at that young age I saw one quick shot to the head to be more humane and painless for the animal then some other methods of slaughter like stabbing them in the jugular or electrocution. Also the anticipation of endless amounts of bacon and barbeque that the farm would soon be enjoying made the gruesome sight less grisly and easier to stomach. However, seeing the goat dangle upside down stirred something in me never before felt. I began to cry while standing there leaning on my bicycle and thought of it as some kind of crucifixion. It would have been a spectacle for the masses if there were more people than the four of us. I suddenly became embarrassed over my crying and was afraid that the other men would see me weeping but in fact, I don�t think they saw me at all. So I mounted my bike and turned in the opposite direction and rode off down the dirt path. I had worked long hard days on a tobacco farm under blistering heat and been so dirty that plants would sprout from my ears. I fished and hunted deer regularly, ventured into uncharted wooden areas with snakes, swamps, and spiders, I could not remember a time when I didn�t have scabbed knees, so I had always thought that a boy of my stature was supposed to be tough and could handle anything. Until now, I could handle anything. �Why are they doing this,� I wanted to scream. �How can they kill something so beautiful in it�s own right?� I stopped by a flat bed truck in a grassy field that we grew hay in and set my bike down. I sat on the running board of the truck wanting to hide and I continued to shed tears for this animal, periodically standing to see if anyone was coming down the path and could possibly see my sobs. I thought now that the best thing to do was to return home and sit in solitude in my bedroom hoping that I would suddenly forget the demonstration I had just seen. So I peddled home without noticing a sound. The cows were not mooing and the chickens were not crowing. The farm animals seemed as sad as I and perhaps they were showing respect for a fallen animal brother. I felt their pain and in a way I felt more grown up than what I was less than an hour ago. I had seen something never witnessed by my eyes and I had been shown a new way in which the world works in cruelty. I sat on my bed and did nothing but stare at the wall for a good solid hour. I ran the whole experience through my head over and over but it never seemed to look less gruesome or awful. My eyelids started to become heavy and I laid my head upon my pillow and drifted off to sleep. After about two hours of rest my mother jostled me awake. I sat upright and noticed that the sun had already set. The entire house was dark. My mother had just awoken from her Sunday nap and had not bothered to turn on any lights in the house yet. �Come with me,� she said. �Everyone is meeting at �The Barn.� I slowly got up and rubbed my eyes. For a second I had forgotten what I had seen earlier in the day and life seemed normal. Nevertheless, like a freight train, the memory came rushing back. My mother and I left the house and walked down the dirt path to �The Barn.� I did not open my mouth to tell her what I had seen that day. I was afraid that she would ask me too many questions and I would unintentionally tell her about my blubbering. Of course, she probably already knew the whole story without one detail from me. Mothers know things like that. There was only a small curve in the path that separated my mother and I from the occasion taking place at �The Barn.� Already I could hear the chatter of people and country music wailing from a car radio. I seemed like a different person walking beside my mother that night. I had seen brutal death, in some form, and had grown into an older person emotionally. I felt taller and my strides seemed longer. A fire burning in a barrel was now visible and there was a small congregation surrounding it. It was a very muggy night and there was no need for other sources of warmth besides the coolers full of alcohol that were sitting steadily on the concrete floor, but what is the use of a barrel if you can�t light a fire in it? Some of the farm boys had set up a gas cooker on the concrete and someone had already heated up a pot of peanut oil. The rusty table we used to hold drinks, napkins, and plates at our usual cookouts was set up and had hamburger buns and all the expected condiments placed neatly upon it. I stared at the location of the goat killing from earlier that day and all the evidence was completely vacant. There was no white goat, no rope, and no bucket full of blood. I began to think that the whole spectacle never happened and thought of it as nothing more than a dream. One of the farm boys standing around the barrel said to me, �Go over there and get you sumpthin� to eat.� I walked slowly towards the table and shooed away the flies that were swooping down upon an open hamburger bun bag. I grabbed my bun and placed it on my Styrofoam plate and stabbed a piece of breaded meat with my plastic fork that was sitting on paper towels to soak up the excess oil. The meat was now sandwiched nicely between the buns with a little dollop of mayonnaise. I bit into my creation and nearly burned my tongue. It must have just come out of the pan. I hadn�t eaten anything that entire day and after seeing the killing of a goat, I thought that I might never eat again. Another bite of my sandwich and I was beginning to think that this was the best meal I had in weeks. It was tender and seasoned perfectly. The farm boy saw me enjoying my sandwich and came over to me and placed his hand on my shoulder and spoke, �You must have eaten goat meat before.� |