It was a beautiful Autumn morning in Aspen Springs. I was working in my wood shop while listening to KSUT on the radio. The large double doors were open, allowing sunshine and a gentle breeze to enter my realm.
Bluegrass music had permeated the airwaves for over an hour, but now I was growing weary of these back-woods hillbillies, their irritating nasal voices and that incessant banjo picking and plucking. It was driving me nuts.
What’s the sound you hear when a banjo player jumps off a ten-story building? Answer: Applause!
I grabbed my hammer and raised it above the radio, but at the last moment decided to simply turn the damn thing off.
Ah. The sounds of silence.
But wait. What am I hearing? I strained to listen. In the distance, I thought I heard someone yelling for help. And then I heard it again. Yes. No mistaking. That was definitely a female yelling “help.” Over and over again: “Help!… Help!… Help!”
My God! Some poor woman is in desperate need of assistance. I immediately went into rescue mode.
I stepped out of the shop and tried to determine what direction the yelling was originating. It seemed to be coming from the east. I jumped in my truck and took off on Nutria Circle. Every minute I’d stop, turn off the engine and listen. At one point I realized that the frantic screams were becoming fainter. Rounding the circle, the cries became a bit louder, but the next minute they were again faint.
I backtracked and headed up Nutria Lane and shortly pulled over, turned off the engine and hopped out.
About thirty yards away ‒ in a fenced pasture ‒ was a shed. The female screams were emanating from there. I jumped the fence and ran full speed toward the shed yelling, “I coming! I’m coming!” Thoughts came to my mind that a poor old lady had fallen and broken her leg or perhaps something much worse: she was tied up, being held against her wishes by some ruthless kidnapper. My God!
I rounded the back of the shed and came face to face with the poor girl. I startled her. She looked at me and screamed, “Help!”
And then the reality of the moment came crashing down on my head like a sledge hammer. I had just rescued an idiotic nanny goat!
She had gotten tangled up in her lead and couldn’t quite get to her food. Her name was probably Karen, a privileged, entitled little cloven-hoofed biddy. I felt like a stupid fool. I looked around the field of weeds, for a human to lash out at, but there was none to be found.
If I could only have a minute or two with the asinine owner of this pathetic beast, I’d go off like a sawed-off shotgun.
I walked away in disgust. Here I had thought that I was doing a good deed: A knight in shining armor, gallantly rescuing a damsel in distress. But no. As it turned out, I was nothing more than a pathetic goat roper.
As I drove back to my shop I thought about lunch. Saving the life of a poor, young female can really build up an appetite. I had planned on having a sandwich, but now my mouth was watering for a big platter of tender, succulent . . . cabrito! . . . And I know where I can get it.
DC has been a frustrated musician for over fifty years, and now has decided to become a frustrated writer. Learn more at DCDuncan.com. He’ll keep you posted.