Updated: Aug 2, 2021
“ Stuck in the fence was a goat, silent, her head lodged between two slats of the metal, her body sunk to the ground as if she had given up trying to struggle."
I was walking back down the road from town to my cottage on the St. Lawrence River, past the small houses and gardens that looked out at the seaway. The road was narrow and twisted, and I had to navigate it carefully to avoid the fast cars making turns, their drivers often gazing the other way at the scenery. There was one house with a square fenced-in garden that got almost no attention because it sat opposite the dangerous crux. I walked past it but, several hundred feet toward home, stopped suddenly. For absolutely no reason, I ran back down the road, onto the property, and over to the blind side of the garden of the little house, not sure what I was looking for. Stuck in the fence was a goat, silent, her head lodged between two slats of the metal, her body sunk to the ground as if she had given up trying to struggle. Without the slightest fear, I reached over, drew the metal apart with both hands, and she pulled free. She ran backwards, jumped up and down a little, then we stared at each other for a few seconds of acknowledgement. When I got home, I told my friend Babette, who was visiting, and she drew a picture of a goat in our guest book, with the words "Scott, friend to the animals."