The Goat Parade

This parade didn't go past the bungalow but I couldn't resist taking a picture or writing about it. Edward and Louise seemed perfect witnesses.

Louise reached out and shook Edward’s arm. “Stop, stop. I want to take a picture.” He looked at the warehouses ranged down the left side of the road and the mixed cactus and brush on the other. “Of what?” he asked, thinking that not even the most dedicated shutterbug would find anything photogenic in the scene. “Of the goats, of course.” She pointed off to the right where far away a ragged line of them moved their way. Black and white, orange, brown, and yellow, in all sizes they came. From the shaggy patriarch in the lead to the littlest kid prancing beside its mother, the goats moved as if on a mission. Edward stopped the pickup in the middle of the road, forgetting to depress the clutch and causing the engine to stall with a jerk, and Louise stood out of the truck but behind the door as if afraid the goats would charge her. She earned a sideways glance from the billy goat as he led his flock by. Edward heard the click-buzz of the digital camera as his wife took picture after picture. “Like she’s on the Serengeti,” he muttered. He glanced in the rear view mirror surprised to see a line of cars behind him. Only when Louise lowered the camera and began to sit back in her seat did the lead vehicle swing out to pass them, the native driver giving them a smile and wave. Probably laughing at the crazy tourists, Edward thought with a sneer.

--Barbara