Now that the "goat shed" is finally complete, my enterprising husband has moved onto the next project - a major renovation of the "people shed" where he stores his tools, lawnmowers, old car parts, etc. This involves tearing off the sides and roof in preparation for a complete overhaul, lots of loud sawing, hammering and smashing down walls. On Saturday afternoon we were in the midst of this incredible fun (which Mike has deemed a family project) when we noticed increased activity nearby and realized that there would soon be a graveside service at the small cemetery across the street. Not wanting to disrupt the service, we took a break from demolition and turned off the power tools. I went inside to make some lemonade and collapse on the couch, but very shortly I was roused by a loud commotion outside. What on earth? Hadn't I told the kids to stay quiet until the funeral was over?
Oops - apparently we forgot to tell the goats - who were up on the roof of their shed bawling their heads off in an effort to get all the interesting folks across the street to pay attention to them. Probably the only funeral ever disrupted by goats..."Dearly beloved, we are gathered..." MAAAAAAAA "And as we remember..." MAAAAAAAAAA "Let us pray." MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
I sent Emily to get them down, but that just made them want to play all the more. As the service concluded and everyone drove away, I thought I caught a scowl from one of the pallbearers, but I just shrugged as if to say, "Pesky stray goats! I wonder who they belong to..."
I was reminded of an anecdote from when my own daughters were about four years old. Spying the canvas tent, flashing lights and crowds of people from our front yard, they ran to me so excited and cried, "Mommy! There's a carnival across the street! Can we go?" So can I really blame the goats...?
No comments:
Post a Comment