By Chuck Palomino
Reading the sheriff's log in the Sentinel last week I came across an item that took me back to my boyhood. The item related that two goats tied to a shed at Bandon Farm and Garden ate $350 worth of plants that were for sale. How the goats got there and who they belong to is still a mystery. Oh yes, goats. Anyone who has ever had the misfortune to own one knows that they are ornery critters and will get into mischief where there is no mischief to get into.

That brings me to my story. My early childhood was spent in a simple country environment. We had lots of chickens and ducks and we had two goats. My sis and I loved them but they would test the patience of Job. They were garbage disposals from hell. At least once or twice a week, at night, they would jump the fence of their enclosure and we would find them in the morning enjoying a green salad from our garden, a main course from an over turned trash can or, sin of sins, standing on the roof of our dad's 1959 Chevy.

My sister and I fearful of our dad's wrath and a goat barbecue would throw rocks and shout insults. The commotion would rate only a casual glance from them before they trotted nonchalantly back to their pen. The item in the sheriff's log brought the memories back. There was a song we used to song that said it well. As I remember the words went something like this: Bill Hogan's goat was feeling fine. Ate three red shirts right off the line. Bill took a stick, gave it a whack, then tied it to the railroad track. The whistle blew. The train grew neigh. Bill Hogan's goat was doomed to die. It gave a cough, a cry of pain. Coughed up the shirts and flagged the train. And that's just about all I have to say about goats.