Dad’s Goat Matthew David Perez
I met my dad for breakfast at Buen Café. “I had to put the goat down,” he said. I didn’t want to hear it, but he was going to tell me. “Yeah?” I said. “After the dog attack, he was pretty messed up. No ear and everything. One day I was out there shoveling the pen, and he just didn’t move. Got right up on him. Didn’t even know I was there.” “Wow.” “Sometimes he fainted.” The waitress brought our breakfasts and set them before us. “The neighbor wanted to stuff him. Because of his horns.” “Really?” “So night before, I set him up right. I gave him a big bale of alfalfa, and filled the tub with fresh water. He just laid there, had a good time. And next morning I borrowed the neighbor’s .22.” He sprinkled pepper on his eggs. “Four times. Nothing. Finally had to cut his throat.” I poured coffee, and took long sips. “So I cut the grass on Saturday.” “Yeah?” “First time using the mower in fifteen years.”
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