Unlike the guys at
Henge Productions, I know where my goat is. Or was.
Her name was Dodi - a boney-kneed, floppy earred, black and white beauty that
I bottle fed.
My father bought me a lot of pets: a pony, dogs, cats, gold fish, hamsters, a bull (ok, not a pet but I didn't eat Dan), rabbits and, one summer, an ant farm. But there was something about Dodi.
When I was 11, my father bought her for me from Dr Norman in Whitbourne. I don't remember asking for a goat, but I remember how cool it was to have her meet me at the lane after school. She was like a dog but better. Dodi could chase a ball across the grass, then stop for snack. We had the best trimmed lawn in Chapel Arm.
But as she grew, I did too. And basketball practice, drama club and hanging out with boys meant I didn't always come home right after school.
"No sense in having her barred in the barn, if you're not going to look after her," my father said. He later sold her to a man in Thornlea for $30. I never saw her after.
