Tuesday, January 9, 2007

Sorry, Wrong Number

You may know that the Wife has goats. Two of them. She really likes animals.

She's got goats, chickens, ducks, and such. Used to have some pigs, but they died.

Anyway, she's got goats.

And she convinced her sister that having a goat ... or two ... was a good thing.

So her sister got her some goats.

One of the goats she has was pregnant. And had triplets.

Now, not all of the baby goats made it. Two of the kids died. But one has survived, so far.

My sister-in-law seems to think that bringing up a goat in the house is a good idea. She didn't get that idea from me, that's for sure. But, hey, it's her house. And if she wants to have a goat in a box in the living room, that's her business.

They seem to be having a problem with the goat being fed by its mother. I think the baby goat in the living room and the mama goat in the back yard might contribute to that, but like I said, I'm not the goat expert.

So, they've decided to feed the kid themselves. And they milk the mama goat, prepare bottles, and feed the baby goat.

And that's been on the Wife's mind, because she thinks baby goats are just so cute.

So, this past Sunday morning, as we were on the way to my home town for my brother-in-law's funeral, the Wife was worried about the baby goat. So, I suggested she call.

Now, if you have a cell phone, it probably has an address book (or contacts) included. And you might have a name or two in it. The Wife does. Well, she has a few, anyway. Including her sister's.

But that would involve pressing menu, scrolling down to contacts, pressing Enter, scrolling down to her sister's name, then pressing Send. About 6 or 7 punches of buttons or arrows.

No, she knows it'd be much easier dialing the number. All 10 numbers. Then pressing Send.

Yeah, that's much easier. Even easier than pressing the speed dial number she has set up for her.

So, we're traveling along, about an hour out of Columbus, when she decides to call and check on the baby goat.

The Wife dials the number. The phone rings. And the nephew answers.

Now, he must have risen early, eaten breakfast, then lay back down for a nap, because he sounded just a little ... different.

The Wife speaks up, "Hey!"

He responds, a little hesitantly, "Hey."

She jumps right to the reason for the call. "Did you milk the goat yet?"

A brief pause, then he responds, "What?"

She repeats her question, "Did you milk the goat yet?"

Another brief pause. Then, "Ma'am, this is South Girard Church of Christ."

The silence was deafening.

The Wife was quite embarrassed, of course. But it could have been worse, I suppose.

I wonder what kind of answer she would have received if she had messed up and called the Masonic Lodge instead.


  1. Growing up on a farm -- the kid needs to be with its mother. Doesn't matter if in the house or not, but the mother has to teach the kid how to be a goat and can't if seperated.

    As for the wrong number -- at least it was a church and not Hanna's Nightlife ;)

  2. HAAAA!!! Hilarious!
    OK, so seriously--your SIL keeps a goat in the HOUSE?
    I'll never forget the time I went to a bar in Fairhope, AL. Judge Roy Bean's. It's where everyone, rednecks, yuppies, stoners, old, young go--or so it was at the time. (I only went there once.) So anyway, my sister and I were yukking it up, drunk, and she points out the goat sitting in the middle of the floor. Me being a dyed-in-the-wool city girl (then on vacation from Washington DC), I'm like, "Yeah, bullshit. That's pretty funny though." She swore it was real and always there, but I thought she was just messing with me because I was drunk and wouldn't know anyway. So I commence to throwing ice cubes from my Jack & Coke at the goat just to see for sure. After a few bounced off its sleeping head, yep, it moved. I almost jumped out of my skin! There was a f'n GOAT IN THE BAR!
    With people walking around it!
    Like that was normal!

    I shudder to think of all the stereotypes about the South that reinforces.

    The place was like a shrine to Southern Stereotypes, actually. I don't have a southern accent, and sure enough, half the people I spoke to said "you ain't from here, are you?" And "what're you, a Yankee?" And "Are you from New York?" (I have no idea why people often think I'm a New Yawker, because there isn't even a hint of New Yawk in the way I speak.) The place should really check IDs to make sure there aren't any visiting Yankees getting in because the average Yankee would return to New Yawk yammering on about hicks with goats in the bar! (OTOH, here I am yammering on about it myself, right?)

    Livestock does not belong indoors. Of this I am certain. ;-)

  3. Nice setup. I thought for sure the goat was going to eat a telephone.

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  5. The one-week-old baby goat(she was born on new years day) might weigh a whole 2 pounds by now (she is smaller than the 2 cats that live inside), and left outside she would now be dead as the mother would not let her nurse or care for her in any way, hence the need, not choice, to keep her inside and bottle feed her. Put in the same position I would hope everyone would care for the helpless animal, rather than saying "Animals dont belong in the house." , and letting it lay outside and die.

  6. I'm with Jo. Never had a goat, but that kid needs to be with mama. What a great story. Our phone number used to be one digit off from a woman named Ann--it got so I could just give the callers the correct number this sweety was on so many committees. Then I saw in the paper she died. Felt like I'd lost a friend.

    Thanks for stopping by. Our link policies are similar--I'll take a look around.


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