Lousy with Goats
“Don’t look down,” the old prospector advised as he heaved the bulging garbage bag over the side of the railing. The rotting cantaloupe stench wafted toward Kimberly and then up and away into the desert air as the bag was dropped into the void. Many seconds later, and far below, the group heard the faint thud and accompanied shattering of glass bottles from their discarded picnic lunch.
“The goats will get it,” the old prospector mused, waving off Kimberly’s look of concern. “This place is lousy with goats.” Indeed, when Kimberly ventured toward the edge of the canyon, she could see the horned and bearded creatures, clambering out of notches in the rocks and making their way down to the discarded trash. Kimberly leaned a little further to catch a glimpse of the white plastic bag the prospector had tossed. It was farther down than she had imagined, barely a bug splat on the red rock below. The goats were starting to gather, and Kimberly thought she could make out one of the animals tearing away the plastic to reveal the rotting treasure inside, then waving the bag like a merry white flag before chewing it to strips.
The old prospector motioned back to the bus.
“Time to get on, little doggies! Next stop is the gift shop. Tips appreciated.” He turned to see what had occupied the group’s attention. The bus had been boarded by some stray goats. They were prancing down the aisles and chewing the blue carpet off the seats. Kimberly could make out one in the driver’s seat, stamping its hooves on the dashboard. The animal laid on the horn and another headbutted straight through the rear window, startled by the persistent honk.
The group watched on helplessly as the goats tore apart their vehicle. Kimberly saw one of the goats chew into her backpack and shake its contents onto the seat before eating a tube of chapstick that rolled out. Her mother’s sun hat had floated down from the overhead bin and landed over the eyes of one of the goats who kicked and brayed in protest. Another was wearing sunglasses and eating a whole pack of cigarettes. A third was pocketing the cash from the wallets.
“Doggone it!” wailed the old prospector. “Not again!” He tugged at his beard and stamped his demonic hooves.
