So I had my ass kicked by a 60-pound goat. Nothing new there.
We'd caught Pants and C. was brushing the cashmere off him. I stayed away as goat dander makes my head swell to tremendous size. And after an eternity of brushing, C. decided to give up for the day. I "helped" her by unclipping him BEFORE taking the halter off his horned head, and he tore away, still wearing the halter. My bad.
He's leary now, harder to catch. I go over to the big red maple tree by the barn, pull down a branch and rustle tasty leaves at him. He eyes me with his creepy horizontal pupils. I try to look innocent, and babble happily, falsely at the sheep and the remaining goat, feeding them handfuls of leaves. He is suspicious. (Can't imagine why.) Finally, watching those dumb sheep suck down those succulent leaves becomes too much. He comes close, halter now around his neck like a leash, and scarfs lovely red leaves – I grab the halter with my left hand, still holding the branch with my right. Right then I know it's not going to go well.
He takes off and my feet go up and I hang on tight to branch and goat, spinning counterclockwise like one of those aerial rope dancers – only faster and with less grace. (I feel like a spinning top or a dreidel…the spinning don't stop when you leave the cradle…) I'm not sure how many times we go round, at least twice, before I go flying off into the dirt. Oof.
I haul myself up, surprisingly unhurt. In fact… my back feels a little better. I have a few minor scrapes is all. I limp into the house and bring out the big guns: alfalfa pellets. Pants comes over politely, eats pellets and lets me remove the harness. Guess I showed him.