Flakey

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

Clinking glasses, raucous chatter, and a thick haze of smoke partially obscure the arrival of an unusual patron. She bellies up to the bar, placing front hooves on the slick surface, ears flicking in anxious vigilance and anticipation as her spindly legs grapple for balance. A pint of beer is presented, giving rise to voracious lapping and the noisy, repetitive clank of teeth against glass. Loud cheers erupt as the last drops are inhaled and the four hooves return squarely to the floor. Flakey the Goat has made another cameo at the HillTop Tap.

The Tap was a neighborhood dive bar at the summit of our childhood hill and commanded a bird’s eye view of a mediocre little mining town along a big dirty river. Up close and personal, the town lacked both beauty and class – but from a distance, twinkling night lights provided magic, especially for those permitted by Tap’s owner to venture onto the roof for serious chats or kanoodling. It was a tough place with an even tougher crowd, not to mention a few stray animals and a resident one-legged chicken. Flakey made regular appearances at HillTop Tap, always to the delight of the clientele who welcomed her like family and served her accordingly albeit with atypical animal fare.

Flakey’s owner, Dave, was a well-known, bulky bullshitter with an appropriately matched personal decibel level. If his temperament wasn’t gaudy enough, his leisure suits and wide ties were. It was the 1970s and Dave was always interested in commanding a presence. He amassed a wide variety of “friends” from an even broader range of social genres, occasionally checking in with the seedier side at the hilltop hangout to listen to or deliver the latest community gossip. Dave had his fingers in education, community politics, and general wheeling and dealing. It therefore came as no surprise when he showed up at the bar with a billy goat rumored to have been won from a local radio station. Dave named the animal in accordance with his observation of her randomly errant behavior, although I have often wondered how he thought a goat should act. 

Flakey was an honest girl who, through no fault of her own, drew the short straw in the owner category and thus catapulted into goat hell. After the shock of the no-give-back “prize” wore off, Dave’s primly proper wife insisted Flakey have an aesthetically pleasing barn that matched their main house, complete with artificial flowers in a petite window box and strategically placed out of sight behind the garages and near the woods. 

Unlike the freedom of a real farm, a few patches of grass and a long rope provided tethered grazing. Unsupervised roaming was not an option as the goat might ingest Mrs. Dave’s abundant outdoor landscape of plastic plants. She also wanted nothing to do with Flakey’s care and feeding. Goats smelled, after all, and Mrs. Dave would be unable to Lysol Flakey like she did their Irish Setter. 

Dave delighted in showing-off Flakey to anyone who feigned interest, loading her and her thrashing legs into the car at a moment’s notice for destinations unknown. In between Flakey’s celebrity appearances, I was the neighbor kid entrusted to feed, clean, and look after her in exchange for weekly cash. Other than owning an extremely aloof outdoor cat, my family was devoid of actual social pets, so the opportunity to care for ANY affection-reciprocating animal – especially one I could engage with – was big fun. At least for a while.

Flakey indeed reeked, but had adorably large, soft, brown eyes crowned with luxurious, feathery lashes. She was my stature and we became fast pals. An occasional loving head butt from her was part of the gig, and she would let me brush her for hours, only to roll in the dust again to restore her preferred earthy musk. 

I felt sorry for Flakey having been thrust into such an odd arrangement, and spent hours in one-sided conversation with her on the topic. She would simply stare, continue munching, and defecate. With her little home situated on a slight slope, the irony of what rolled downhill was not lost on me. And I was there with a lightning-fast shovel to intervene, taking my poop-scooping role quite seriously in the interest of tidiness – if there even was such a thing with a goat. If I remember correctly, it was my first paying job; no surprise my stint at child labor was full of you-know-what. Flakey’s constant, satisfied gaze led me to believe she delighted in the not-so-dry humor.

As time went on, I got more involved in school and less enamored with excrement and its accompanying fragrance. Goat stench wasn’t exactly the preferred pheromone for a young lady trying to snag a fellow elementary school boyfriend. My availability to continue caring for Flakey grew limited and I was eventually relieved of my duties. Thankfully, Dave and The Missus were both teachers and understood the need for both academics and cleanliness. 

I cannot even fathom how much beer Flakey consumed during her unfortunate incarceration with her ill-suited owners. All I know is she could throw one back and guzzle with the best of them. I only hope her dignity and small liver remained intact.

Flakey was eventually given away and her barn dismantled. The HillTop Tap went up in smoke, its carcass falling into ruin, then oblivion. Dave and his bride were able to live out their later years goat-free and in better circles. All that remains now is the view from the hill and a sweet memory of a four-legged, brown-eyed girl who took it for the goat team, surviving her sentence on the darker side of life. 

Cheers to YOU, Flakey!