Money for Old Goat

The goats have been sold, and to my great delight, the sheep with them. Monsieur Cazeau from the otherside of Charbonville is coming to collect them this weekend and is going to give us 100€ for the privilege of taking them away. He wants them to clear his grounds. And they will, he need have no doubt on that score.
The sheep, by the way, is singular. It used to be plural but Sheepy is now the only creature of her kind left on the premises. She is about four years old. A large, woolly animal with very long legs. (Have ever seen Picasso’s sheep? Well, Sheepy’s ancestors may well have modelled for the portrait). She is also incredibly strong and given to head-butting strangers. Le Comte and I, however, are not strangers, we are her parents. Sadly, she was abused by her ‘real’ mother and had to be hand-reared. She started off sleeping in the kitchen, which was cute until she peed all over the floor. Then we made her a bed up in one of the cellars. All through that winter the first thing I would hear when I came down in the morning was Sheepy (Lamby as she was then) crying for her milk. As concerned parents le Comte and I had purchased special sheep milk for our charge which we mixed up and gave her warm in a two litre bottle with a special ewe-effect teat. Every day at 6.45am I would creep outside in my slippers, cross the frozen courtyard and push the bottle through the bars of the grillage where it was slurped down in two gulps. I can definitely recommend sheep-babies for getting on with their feeding – so much better than the Princes and Princesses ever were.
When we sold the rest of her kind, sentiment persuaded us to hang on to Sheepy. It’s a decision we have pretty much regretted ever since.
The goats came from a different source and were relatively late arrivals to Chateau Coldspot. A ‘friend’ wanted to get rid of them and suggested they might be an attraction for our guests. So we said we would take two sisters; one black and brown, one white and black. We agreed a price of 80€ the pair. The scene that followed went something like this:
‘Friend’ with apparently helpless shrug: ‘Mais le Bouc (the male) ee vill be all alone. Do you not vant zees charming creature also?’
Le Bouc was already trussed up in the back of the car with the others, just on the off chance. He wriggled pitifully. ‘Ee is really very gentil. No problem for you.’
Le Comte and I peered in, then reeled back.
La Chatelaine: ‘Goodness !’
Le Comte, frowning : ‘He’s a tad ripe, isn’t he ?’
‘Friend’: In ze field,’ wide sweep of arm indicating the spacious Chateau pastures, ‘is fine.’ And also, he can make babies to eat. Is very good Bouc.’
La Chatelaine with look of horror: 'Eat the babies?'
‘Friend’ hurriedly changing tack: ‘Okay, no eat babies, but,’ (sorrowful look), ‘Ee will be all alone.’
Chatelaine et Comte: ‘Oh dear. Okay then.’
‘Friend’: ‘Excellent. He will be very ‘appy ‘ere. Ze price for ‘im is 75€.’
Le Comte: ‘Price? Oh, right, bugger.’
By this time le Bouc was already being unloaded from car accompanied by a very strong smell.
‘Friend’: You vill need to buy chains to attach ze little goats. Zees are not included.’
La Chatelaine, bemused: ‘Goodness.’
Le Comte: ‘Bugger.’
‘Friend’: ‘Zis makes one hundred and fifty-five euros. No cheques please.’
We hand over the cash with a bewildered air.
‘Friend’, reversing the car: ‘Zank you. Au revoir.’
Le Comte and I stood and looked in confusion at the little sister goats and their smelly old Dad. All the same dwarf breed fortunately.
‘Oh God,’ said the Princesses, hanging out of an upstairs window and holding their noses. ‘He stinks.’
Le Comte, trying hard: ‘We’re going to have baby goats to eat, supplement our food supply.’
Princesses in unison: ‘I’m not eating goat. I’m going to be vegetarian.’
La Chatelaine, quietly: ‘I was thinking about being vegetarian too. Not only today you understand.’ (smiles weakly at le Comte).
Le Comte, scratching his head: ‘I’m going to be eating alot of goat then.’

But actually he never ate any goat, though babies were born and it all followed the same pattern as it had with the sheep before them. That is, we ended up with far more of the flipping animals that we had ever wanted, all shouting for food and escaping from their hurriedly erected enclosures to munch on the tulips, roses, raspberries etc., that we had painstakingly nurtured. Le Bouc truly was a gentle soul until the females came into season, then he turned into a sex-crazed paedophile and had to be left up the mountain where he was subsequently rescued by a local farmer.
‘I found un Bouc on ze montagne,’ le farmer said to Princess 1, one fine day in the local Tabac. ‘You 'av lost it, perhaps? Maybe 'e comes from your Chateau.’
‘Non,’ shrieked Princess 1, not wishing to be associated with any form of goat.
‘Non,’ confirmed her friend, suppressing a smile.
‘I vil take him home zen,’ said the farmer.
‘Excellent idea,’ choked Princess 1.
And there he remains, we believe, to this day. And come Sunday the others will be gone too. Roll on dimanche!