Patches

Well, Patches was a pain in the backside most days, but damn if she didn’t grow on me. She weren’t no cuddly pet like a dog, but she had personality. Big one. She figured out the latch on the barn door. I kid you not—let herself in and out whenever she pleased. Ate all the tomatoes straight off the vine in the glasshouse one summer, just strolled down the garden like she owned it. She had this scream. Not a bleat, a scream. Sounded like someone was being murdered. First time she did it, I thought lightning hit the fence. But she’d follow me around the field, nosing at my back pocket for treats. She liked biscuits. And paper, unfortunately. She got old real quick. One season she was racing the quadbike, the next she was lying down more than standing. When she stopped eating, I knew it was time. It felt weird, not hearing that awful scream the next morning. She was loud, stubborn, nosy and kind of a thief. But she was my goat. And this place feels quieter without her.