Image courtesy of Pixabay
Had I met Snowball under different circumstances, I’m sure I would have found her adorable. Sadly for our friendship, I met her on a crowded plane. I heard about her before I saw her, listening in on the conversation between the two passengers sitting between me and the aisle.
”Snowball never pooped when I put her down on her pee pee pad in the bathroom. I know she has to go by now.” Ms. Bozo worried as she crowded me closer to the window.
”She’ll be fine. We can’t do anything about that now.” Mr. Bozo replied, placidly.
”I think you need to take her to the lavatory and put her down on a pad.” Ms. Bozo insisted. “I gave her a little laxative last night so she’d go this morning. She never did. We don’t want her getting constipated again. You remember what happened last time.” That sounded ominous.
“I told you not to do that!” Mr. Bozo grouched. “You know how that works her.” He got up and struggled to pull Snowflake’s carrier from under Ms. Bozo’s seat. Ms. Bozo unzipped the opening and peeked in at Little Snowball. The smell was bad news. Desperate to escape the fetid air in the carrier, Snowball leapt to freedom, smearing Mr. and Ms. Bozo with feces on her way. Snowball no longer looked snowy. Ms. Bozo squealed and Bozo roared. Snowball sprinted down the aisle, ducking between passenger’s feet, the stewardess in pursuit.
”Don’t hurt her! She’s scared!” Shrieked Ms. Bozo. “Snowball, come back to Mama! Snowball! Snowball!
That Snowball could run. Darting in and out among the legs of the other passengers, she left a little of herself all along the way. She got by Bozo and the stewardess several times. Eventually she was recaptured, looking much cleaner, courtesy of hapless passengers’ legs. Ms. Bozo tidied her up in the lavatory, so Snowball was in better shape than her disgruntled new acquaintance who took turns sponging off in the lavatory,. They clearly held a grudge.
Soon, a miasma from Snowball’s befouled carrier beneath the seat began to reek. As the odor recirculated through the cabin, only the Bozos failed to notice. Even after the stewardess had them stuff it in a garbage bag, the smell spread, even crossing the curtain into first class.
It was not the best flight I ever had.
I don’t know why Daddy kept goats. In theory, they’d eat brush and he’d have one to barbecue on Memorial Day, Fourth of July, or Labor Day. The fact is, our goats didn’t ascribe to the brush eating theory and were born knowing their life’s purpose was to get their heads stuck in fences, climb on everything and make passionate love. It was clear to the dumbest of them that flowers, grass, garden vegetables, laundry on the line, and almost anything else was better than brush. Only a starving goat would eat poison ivy or bitter weed if anything else is available. I had plenty of experience with goats. Our fences were intended to keep cows and horses in. Goats easily slipped their heads through the wire since they were the philosophical type who believed “the grass is greener on the other side. The problem arose when they tried to…
Nutsrok 