Goat Tales

"A close one?" I asked, knowing that in Texas anything "close" is still far away -- another reason to miss New Orleans. After 20 minutes on the freeway, Chauncey's transport instinct kicked in and he lay still, squealing only when I released his throat -- the bleeding had stopped. Chauncey remained a civilized beast, while in my panic I harassed our driver: "He's gonna bleed to death!" I shook Chauncey to keep him from falling sleep. "Is the vet actually close yet?" Our driver's continual Shh, shh, shh, shhhh was meant as much for me. But I couldn't help believing that Chauncey was about to become another of Katrina's after-the-fact fatalities. And while Mizzy is gone! I couldn't stop blaming myself: Why did I let them cut off his horns! Why wasn't I out there spending time with him? I spend more time writing about Chauncey, and talking about him at parties with strangers…

By the time we reached the other side of Houston, I realized Chauncey would have already died if he was going to. He breathed through his nose, normally, relaxed. He probably would have eaten a branch, if offered (goats are so hardwired to just eat, eat, eat that as Chauncey's mother lay on her back screaming, giving birth, I saw her lips stretch back over her shoulder to nibble hay). So I was less worried by the time our young driver parked outside a strip mall under red block letters: VET EMERGENCY.

Which I immediately realized was some sort of Vietnam veterans health insurance place.

"No!" I cried. "NO! AH! This isn't a…a real…"

"I know," our driver sighed, gripping his temples. "I can't think of anywhere else. They can at least stop the bleeding here."

I froze. Is he right? "They can? Okay, I'll, uh, just…take Chauncey in, and uh…"

Chauncey squealed when I lifted his head, and our driver studied the building more closely and suddenly realized: "Oh, shit! Veterans?"

"Yes! See? They can't help us at all! Oh, Christ! Christ! Christ!" I climbed back into his Mustang. "God oh God oh God oh God!" I looked across and down the street: "A cat hospital!" We skidded directly over.

The calm doctor shaved Chauncey's throat and found four puncture wounds. She said I'd done an excellent job of stopping the blood and sewed no stitches, just thoroughly cleaned the holes, suggested we buy a spiked collar to protect his throat, and after some goat research, administered a fat white penicillin shot over which Chauncey did not cry -- all on the house, since we're from New Orleans. Chauncey slept clumsily in my arms on the way out, as the doctor assured me he would be fine but that his neck would become very sore from the bites, in that particular way a puncture wound stiffens and spreads out after its first piercing pain. "Like how this whole Katrina experience has been," I testified.

Twenty-four hours later, Chauncey is back living in his carrier as he was when Katrina first threatened. He stands stone-still behind bars, semicatatonic. We are befuddled; even this ideal world is not ours, we've decided, before Mizzy could even see it. Before we've even met its owners. Alone now in their big empty house we wait, and wait, wondering, What now? What next?