Screaming Goats, Vicious Horses, & Psychotic Roosters

(Or, Dr. Who-Little?)

So the U.P.S. truck pulls in the drive and that’s always fun, especially when you’re not expecting anything, which I was not. It was a gift from my sister, Connie, who like most New Yorkers I grew up with now lives in North Carolina. Inside this little box was a lovely little novelty called The Screaming Goat. And that’s exactly what it is. A little plastic goat that screams. 

I thanked my sister for this unsolicited piece of crap and suggested she get some therapy. To this she replied, “Why should I waste my money on therapy when I can send my brothers stupid shit?” Why indeed? That’s a logic I can admire. 

As you will read in the tale to follow, I have had a LOT of animals in my life. Real animals. But I have never had a goat. They butt things. They will hit you with the tops of their little heads and knock you flat on your tukus.  That ain’t worth the milk.

And most of my animals and me got along really well. Except for two of them. 

One was a horse that about bit my nipple off. Another was a rooster named Falstaff. He was three feet tall and had 3” spurs that he would try to imbed into your face every chance he got.  I used to collect the chicken eggs with a basket in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.

All this loosely segues into the upcoming release of my next book, Stranded. Though there are no screaming goats or homicidal roosters in Stranded, there is a nipple-biting horse. And there are other horses that belonged to a woman in the book named Casey. And, after folks read some of the previews of Stranded, the question I get asked more than any other is—Whatever happened to Casey?

I’m not giving that away.  But till then, please enjoy the following regarding myself and All Creatures Great & Small.

Dr. Who-Little?

"Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, Where have you been?"

"None of your damn business, but I'm here now.
So shut your piehole, Jackass, and feed me."

Well, I did it. I fed the cat. And we all know what happens when you “feed the cat.” Actually, I fed the CATS. And they are not my cats. They just kinda’ showed up. Where they came from is as much a mystery as why people watch the Kardashians, and shall remain a mystery, because they ain’t talkin’.  I need to say at this point that I am not anti-cat. As a matter of fact (though it has been over a decade since I owned a pet) I bet you money (and mean cold hard cash) that I have had more pets than most human beings have had in their lifetimes, unless you own a petting zoo. And I have come very close to that, as well.

Here is the SHORT LIST between 1966 and 2023:

9 Hamsters

11 Turtles (Snapping and Box)

17 Dogs

33 Cats

6 Orphan Lambs

1 Blue and Gold Macaw

2 Love Birds

1 Kestrel

1 Mountain Lion

40 Chickens

6 Roosters

64 Peking and Rouen Ducks

49 Mallards

1 Pig

40 Rabbits

500 Fish

6 Guinea Fowl

12 Bobwhite Quail

2 Gerbils

10 Geese

1 Blue Jay

2 Robins

2 Raccoons

Yes, I did eat some of them, and they were delicious. But despite their fate they were all pets lovingly cared for.  Obviously, the Fowl, Poultry, Porcine, Ovine, Rabbit and Game creatures were part of my Animal Husbandry-Self Sustaining phase, which lasted almost a decade.

But all the other critters were, for lack of a better word—"throw-aways.”

Every dog, cat and exotic pet was virtually dumped, injured or lost when they appeared on my doorstep, looking for just a little love and understanding. And that they got. And all of them became devoted and fascinating members of the household, including four big ass dogs who I got as puppies and who each lived for 17 years.

And there is not a single pet I ever had that did not in some way defy what it was supposed to be.

I’ve had ducks that thought they were Eagles.

I’ve had Rabbits that thought they were Dogs.

I’ve had Rabbits who thought they were Cats.

I’ve had Sheep that thought they were Children.

I’ve had Parrots that thought they were Children.

I’ve had 110 Pound Dogs that thought they were Lap Puppies.

I’ve had Lap Puppies think they were Buffalo.

The list goes on forever and the party never ends.

Thank God my Vet at the time (the Late And Great Dr. Kevin Kuenzi, D.V.M) was also one of my best friends. He was a story unto himself.

The reason I have not had any pets in such a long time is because my work had taken me on the road for every 8 weeks out of 9, sometimes longer, and there was just no way to care for anything at home. But that all changed a few weeks back when these two damn cats decided to drag me kicking and screaming back into having “pets.”

I live in the country, my nearest neighbor almost ¼ mile away. On any given day or night, the land is rife with raccoons, possum, turkeys, deer, bobcats, owls, hawks, song birds, migratory birds. Every winter at least 100 geese settle on my pond. We get all kinds of ducks, too. You just never know what you are going to see when you peek outside.

But what I do know is what kind of critters the neighbors have. And when these TWO DAMN CATS showed up within a week of each other, I of course, asked every neighbor within two miles (and there are not a lot of them) if indeed one of their felines had busted ranks and gone A.W.O.L.

Nope. Nada. Zip.

One of my neighbors, Matt Peek, a honcho with the Kansas Dept Of Wildlife and Parks, mentioned there was a rash of people dumping their unwanted pets out on the gravel country roads as of late, and that could be the reason these two orphans chose me as their meal ticket.

In any case, one thing was clear—they were both barely kittens.

At first I ignored them.

But they would not be ignored. Wherever they had come from and wherever they had been, I seemed to be their last chance. They were not moving on. I was the end of the line. The striped one was working on three legs at the time. And they were not in cahoots. They don’t even like each other. But still, they worked me in shifts like a really good con game. One if by day and one if by night, until I went temporarily insane and threw some old burnt hamburgers out onto the driveway.

And the rest is, well. you know…

I will not go on and on about how as they grew more accustomed to being actual pets, their personalities blossomed into absurdly entertaining creatures. But I still had a problem: they were, and still are, half-wild. They come and go as they please and hell if I know what they are up to most of the time.

And, because of this uncertainty, I did not name them, and I did not tell my son (who is here half the time and who adores animals of all kinds) that they were even here, for fear that the minute I did a coyote or a hay wagon would kill one of them deader than Disco.

“I thought you said we had cats, Dad!”

“Well, about that…”

But over Thanksgiving and Christmas that became unavoidable and my kid, the Cat Whisperer (after naming both cats) turned these Two Fairly Feral Feline Con Artists into unabashedly loving companions.  “Loving” meaning him, because they still can’t stand each other and can barely tolerate me unless I am filling bowls with Li’L Friskies.

And there you have it.

I will close with two things:

1: PANCAKE (“because he flops” like a wet rag in my son’s arms) has regained the use of all his legs and has grown into the biggest damn cat I have ever seen. He is huge. And being a Tom (yes, still) he patrols the acreage like a Walking Boss—Master Of All He Surveys. He’s a stone cold killer in the wild but when he is inside he is well, Pancake-like. Just kinda flops and lays there.

2. BAT-KAT (couldn’t tell you why the kid named her that) is the most pliable creature I have ever known. You can manipulate this cat like a Muppet and she just accepts it. Hell, enjoys it. You can stuff her in your hoodie and walk a mile and she’ll sit there purring.  You can grab her by her back legs and swing her like a sheleighleigh and she just purrs and wants more.

If they stick around it will be their idea. But I’ll provide for them as best I can. I have no doubt that if they wander onto a front porch somewhere where they get Fancy Feast instead of Li’l Friskies, that will be the last I see of them. But until then, these two damn cats own me. Lord.

"Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, Where have you been?"

"I've been to Delaney's.  The guy is a moron."