Special Guests Visit the Shop

I know what you’re going to think. What did Nancy have for lunch today? But I can assure you that today, as on all other days, I consumed no mind-altering substance beyond coffee at lunch. Still, on my way back to the shop, just as I prepared to turn into the driveway, I did a double take. A pair of stray dogs had just trotted onto my neighbor’s lawn across the street. If I was quick, I’d have a chance at catching them, calling the Shelter, and returning them to their home.

On second glance, I realized they were not both dogs; the larger one was a pygmy goat. The goat was about 18 inches tall, fat and healthy, his hair mostly white. The dog, a gray-browed male Jack Russell mix, had ribs and hip bones protruding dramatically and scabby sores all over his skin.

I stopped my truck and set the hazard warning lights, hoping the capture would be quick, since I was blocking the road in a bad spot. The dog was friendly enough; he walked right up to me with an ingenuous expression. I picked him up and set him in the truck bed, hoping to do the same with the goat. But the goat had other ideas. He whinnied in distress at being separated from his friend, yet he was not about to let me apprehend him.

I called to him sweetly. I approached him slowly, in a thoroughly unaggressive manner. I got down on all fours and even laid my head on the grass in a canine gesture of submission. (God only knows what the few passers-by must have thought on seeing a 50-something woman engaged in such behavior.) The goat, bleating half-heartedly, played coy. He ran alongside the neighbor’s fence, rubbing his back. He sprang sideways away from me, then took a few leaps forward in alarm.

Meanwhile, as I looked back at the truck to check on the dog, I saw to my horror that he was about to step off the edge of the tailgate, three feet above the ground. I rushed to stop him, but before I could get there, he leapt, and his emaciated body crumpled on the asphalt. It was painful to watch, but the dog was unfazed. I scooped him up gently and carried him back to the grass, hoping his return would attract the goat.

No such luck. Just then, my neighbor, Connie, pulled into her driveway. Although she had groceries to put away, she came over and tried to help. She went inside and found a jump rope, which she formed into a lasso and strove repeatedly to throw over the goat’s head. It didn’t work. We must have spent a good half-hour attempting to capture him.

Throughout this circus act, my truck was still blocking the road. Time for triage. I carried the dog over to the cab, set him on my lap, moved the truck into the driveway, and returned to the neighbor’s yard to resume the arrest.

By this time Connie was impatient to get her milk and other groceries into the refrigerator. Holding the dog as bait in one arm, I crouched down by her van and stayed still, hoping to lure the goat. After a few minutes, the goat ventured close enough that I was able to grab his left horn. I held on tight, and when Connie returned, she tied the jump rope around his neck.

The goat was not happy. He bleated and moped and refused to budge. But at least we had him! I needed both hands to control him, so I put the dog down. With Connie in the lead, calling, “Come on, goat!” and me pulling the jump rope with all my might, we tried to urge our recalcitrant prisoner towards my driveway. He set his front feet against the ground, locking his knees in protest and screaming bloody murder. When he realized strangulation was the only alternative to budging, he leapt forward a few feet. We proceeded across Connie’s lawn, then across the street, in this halting fashion. I hoped the dog would follow.

I dragged the staccato goat to my shop, put him inside, and locked the door behind us. He rocketed around the room in desperation, screaming and pooping everywhere, clearly convinced his end was nigh. Having just put the finishing touches on a delicate writing table, I was terrified by the potential for disaster. I grabbed some blankets and threw them over the piece, hoping the goat wouldn’t vent his anger by butting it to smithereens.

Where was the dog? I had expected to find him waiting loyally at the door. Now I was worried on his behalf. I ran inside and retrieved the goat, leading him with the jump rope, and counting on his plaintive screams to summon his friend. I could hear a dog barking in the distance. Following the barks, I rounded the corner behind the shop, dragging the stubborn goat and calling to the dog as sweetly as I could, given my mounting exasperation. It sounded as though he might be in the shed; I heard the echo of clumsy footfalls. Yes, there he was, clambering over the lawnmower, the stacks of plywood, the rotten old couch. I called and presented the goat, positioning him dramatically in the doorway like an action movie hostage, but the little dog continued stumbling around the piles of old junk. That was when it hit me—he couldn’t see or hear us. He was blind and deaf. As soon as he came close enough, I gathered him up with my free arm and proceeded back to the shop. Suddenly the goat was calm.

I closeted them in the bathroom and grabbed the cordless phone, donned my bifocal goggles, and looked up the number of a wildlife rescue place a couple of miles away. No answer. Next I called Animal Control. No answer there, either. Now I tried the Animal Shelter. After wading through the entire voicemail menu, I was relieved to hear a live human being at the end of the line.

“I have just spent three-quarters of an hour attempting to capture a dog and a goat that seem to be wandering around together,” I told the hapless individual at the other end of the line, my frustration undoubtedly audible.

“Is this Nancy Hiller?” came the response. By bizarre coincidence, I had reached my neighbor, who happens to be the head of public works.

“Susie,” I cried, “what are you doing answering the phone at the Animal Shelter?”

“I just stopped by to see if they needed help,” she answered. How lucky for us all. She dispatched a pair of Animal Control officers.

While waiting for their arrival I returned to the bathroom to check on my guests. The room now had a distinctly barnyard-like smell indicating the presence of an herbivore. The dog and the goat were lying next to each other by the door, perfectly content. I offered the dog some of my shop cat’s food, which he consumed ravenously. He lapped up the cat’s bowl of cream, then took a long draft of water. The goat would not eat; he was just relieved to have his dog back.

When the Animal Control officers arrived, I thought I should prepare them by explaining the animals’ co-dependent relationship, in the hope that they would not be separated. When I described the dog as emaciated, blind, deaf, friendly, and covered with sores, they exchanged anxious looks. “Oh no. This sounds like Harley,” one of them muttered.

Yes, it was Harley. Harley has diabetes and has recently been apprehended by these ladies several times. Mysteriously, the goat was new to them, which struck me as inconceivable given the bond I had observed. The goat was Harley’s ears and eyes, and Harley seemed to function as the goat’s existential protector.

I was sad to see them go. Their visit had been surreal—an interlude of comedy, as touching as it would previously have been inconceivable. Blessedly, the writing table was unscathed.

Harley looks deceptively large here, being in the foreground.