The Goat

By Willow Jay Bryar

          When the tall man came pushing through the gate, we rushed him, clumped into one big bleating mess. We fought hard, nipped at his ankles, butted him in the knees with our heads, bit and yanked at his breeches, all toppled over one another. Because, when we saw the tall man come trotting past, we always knew what was coming by the by. He pulled past the pigs, big boots trawling through the murky slosh of mud and shit—our shit—our legacy in the little world of a steel-barred pen.

          The rope necklace was it. The final curtain call. We all knew what it meant when the tall man came ambling past the shed with it dangling off his hand. It was someone’s grim sentencing. We knew the tall man’s rope better than anyone. Better than they ever will. He came coming and going now and then, and every once in a while, he came by with that same length of rope, hooking and reeling us out, one by one, shutting the door again and again on our dithering existence.

          He never threatened us with it. Never abused. Just came and went in a cold silence. And we just shuffled down the line. That’s all the world was to us. Just a shuffle down the line, until the rope came swinging your way. It was a surety. Our birthright! A means of an exit. Nothing more. Nothing less. So, when the early Spring came whipping in and the tall man made his rounds, I shifted down another place—the very last place. And, I knew, the next rope was mine.

           I danced from side to side, lurched back, kicking at the blue. But there was no use. That was my rope necklace. My fate. Mine by right. Mine to earn.

           I wrestled with the tall man. Put up as much a fight as I could muster before he grabbed a hold over my horns. My knees gave out and I was straddled into the wet dirt. I met the eye of the tall man’s kid, a strapping length of man, just like him. He’ll have his own pen one day and his own rule, I thought, and his own rope. His birthright. He'll be his own tall man, bearing down on us. The kid's eyes caught mine, soft and gentle, and he knew. And I knew.

          The tall man pressed something like ice against my throat.

          There’d be a time when it was his turn to shuffle down the line. When he’d see the pendulum of rope ticking a few paces down. We’ve all got a rope necklace waiting for us. A tall man. Somewhere down the line.

           With a swift flick of his wrist, my neck opened up and all that I was came pouring out of me, into the wider, wicked world. Like a flood. A wash of memory. Time’s barbarous rule.

           And I, just another stain in the dirt, heard the line shuffle down.