The

Caprine Tattler

with Hedda LaMancha

Part 1

Helloooo ...Helloooo all you dear hearts out there in Caprine land, it’s me Hedda, the biggest gossip monger in Goat Land. Well, I mean ... how many refined Caprine ladies do you know who would put themselves out like I do? And just to deliver all that those little tid bits of goat berries that are scattered here and there in all those goat pastures across the country. [ Now...don't lie.... Hedda knows you do!)

Indeed, there is no barn that I can't escape from, no pasture gate I can't open, no fence that Hedda can't jump, even in milk, and this month has been no exception. I had heard across the fence about a farm down Lutherville, Georgia way that has had some wild goings on. So, I slipped out the pasture gate after milking, and tripped my daintily little hooves straight to the source of all this gossip. I already knew that my destination was a pasture on Barber-McWilliams Lane. My friend, Bubba the Sable Buck Hunk said it was because on one end of that dusty, narrow lane lives a crazy bunch of humans named Barbers who hate the folks at the other end of the road, called McWilliams.

Bubba also told me to steer clear of those McWilliams because they were serious goat haters, and their favorite past time is BBQ'ing. And guess what they like to BBQ the most! Of course, the pasture I was headed to was right smack in the middle of those two. But, what I had been told was so intriguing, I just had to take the chance that the McWilliams wouldn't catch me gracefully leaping across their road to get to my destination, Hoot 'N Holler.

Now, Bubba told me that the place wasn't always called Hoot ' N Holler. It was actually named St. Indian Camp after some long dead Indians that had camped there. At least, Hedda hoped they were, long dead, because guess what the favorite food of these Saint Indians was. You guessed it! Hedda burgers.

It is quite a story that Bubba related about how this place got to be called Hoot 'N Holler, and he was more than willing to fill me in on the detail as he hung over the pasture fence looking so soulfully at me. [ Humph! He needs to remember that Hedda is a very particular LaMancha when it comes to choosing who she is going to have kids by.]

It seems that Mr. Tom and Mrs. Patty had moved to Saint Indian Camp because old man Calhoun had a terrible nervous condition and couldn't sleep at night with all the horns and whooping and carrying on in the big city. Then, old Tom's human vet, Dr. Quackenbush, told Mrs. Patty that her mate was going to have a stroke or a nervous breakdown, if they did not move out of their barn in town to the peace and quiet of the country. Only then would Mr. Tom get the peaceful night's sleep he needed so bad. He also said to get themselves some animals to enjoy, and that some goats might just be the ticket. So easy to take care of, and shoot! they'll eat anything. [ AS IF! ]

Of course, Mrs. Patty immediately sold their barn in town and moved, lock, stock and hoof trimmers to Saint Indian Camp. Along the way, she stopped at a sale barn and picked up several head of what she considered top quality goats that she could milk and enjoy watching as they "frolicked" through the pastures against the summer sunsets. [Now, Hedda thought Bubba was pulling her leg, but he swore upon next years breeding season, that this is what Mrs. Tom's new Saanen buck, Old Thunder told him when they met up at the vets! Frolicking indeed!]

Things seemed to go fine for the first few days with Mr. Tom truly enjoying the dark, quiet nights and cool breezes that wafted through his window next to the bed. But, soon a big problem developed. It was in the form of a huge Hoot Owl who decided that the tree standing right outside Mr. Tom's bedroom window, was exactly the place he was going to make his owl barn.

That night, Mr. Tom happily laid his head down on his pillow and was beginning to drift off to dreamland when that hoot owl let out a shriek of a hoot. Mr. Tom levitated in a flash right up out of his bed, his hair standing on end like he was electrocuted. When he finally came down, he landed with a loud plop on the hard wooden floor, and dragging himself to the window, he came face to face with a creature who had yellow glowing eyes, a fat feathered body and snapping beak. At that exact moment, that owl let out another nerve-wracking hoot. [ To say that Mr. Tom fainted would not be fair. Hedda prefers to think that he probably just fell asleep, even if he was hanging half out of the window.]

From that moment, the war was on. Every night the Hoot Owl would flap out and park himself on the thick twisted limb closest to the bedroom window. Now, as a lover of nature, I am sure he was just trying to find a better vantage point to watch for all those horrible little mice creatures that run around at night scaring perfectly gentle Caprines like myself to death.

And every night, Mr. Tom's shadow figure would sneak quietly into the room and onto the bed, which immediately began to tremble as Mr. Tom became more and more nervous as he anticipated the blood curdling hoot that was sure to come any moment. Thankfully, all that drifting through the window was the night concert of the crickets and the booming rib bit of the bull frogs. Relaxing, he would begin to drift off sure that the owl was elsewhere hunting, thankful that he would finally get the good night's sleep that his quivering body needed so badly.

Now , I am sure it is just a coincidence that it was also at that very moment that a shrill hoot would pierce the night air, and Mr. Tom would fly off the bed, his shotgun Bessie in his hands before his feet hit the floor. He would shove it out the window, and with a curse that Hedda cannot possibly repeat, he would let old Bessie rip. BOOM!

Next, grabbing his flashlight, Mr. Tom would flick its illuminating beam back and forth and back and forth over the tree limb, in the tree, and on the ground below. All the while, muttering a prayer under his breath that he had finally shut that blankety blank owl up for good. And every night, much to his horror, there wouldn't be so much a feather floating in the air, let alone a dead owl on the ground. The next thing you heard, was no owl shrieking, but Mr. Tom cursing at the top of his lungs at the empty night air.

Disgusted, one day Mrs. Patty told the fellers at the feed store that her husband was driving her to sipping, [ well, gulping ] the crabapple wine in the basement and why. As soon as she left with her load of goat feed and hay, they would scurry across the street for their coffee break and share the latest episode of Mr. Tom's escapades with their buddies. It was then that the name Hoot 'N Holler was born, and it stuck like glue! No one ever referred to the place by its rightful name anymore, only as "Hoot 'N Holler."

You might wonder what this has to do with Hedda and her Caprine land friends. Well, you're just going to have to wait, as Hedda has talked so much about sleeping, that she can't keep her own eyes open. You are going to have to wait until the next time we get together. So, until next month, don't step in too many goat berries! Toodles ... don't let the straw mites bite!