“I’ve ridden in a
car with a sheep,” I said.
“A sheep skeleton,”
another girl said, referring to the fact that once a year I borrow bones from
my husband to do a program at the library on skeletons. The bones include a full
sheep skeleton that because I am not good at returning things immediately,
usually rides around in my car for a few days.
One year, the UPS
man told me I’d left my dog in the car too long.
“I’ve ridden with
live sheep and goats, too,” I said, but I’m not sure they actually believed me.
My sharing-a-car-with-a-ruminant
adventures first started when I was nine. My family was moving, so my dad drove the
U-Haul with my sister and our dog in the cab. My mother followed in our station
wagon, with my grandfather riding shotgun and my grandmother, my other sister,
and me in the back seat. Our goat, Heidi, rode in the way back.
Heidi and I had a precarious relationship. She’d
pinned me against the garage wall one too many times and generally I tried to
stay away from her. It’s been my experience that goats don’t like people that
can look them in the eye and so are often a little wary of children. By the time we moved, Heidi had stopped trying
to wailing on me every chance she got, but I can’t say I adored her. Anyway, on
the six hour trip to our new home she didn’t try to beat me, although she did
spend a lot of time reaching over the seat and chewing on my braids.
I’ve moved from Illinois to Virginia with a goat
riding on my lap, driven Bruce around with assorted sheep sitting on his lap,
and gone home to visit my mother for Christmas taking a goat along for the
visit. Generally, they make fairly good car riders, although when they decide
to stand up it can do a number on your legs. Don’t try it while wearing shorts.
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