Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 27, 2004 14:53:30 GMT 1
Eau d’Goat!
by
D. W. Roberts
You’d think that the worst thing a postie might have to face on his rounds would be a vicious dog, wouldn’t you? Well, it ain’t! Not in my book. A regular supply of bones from the butcher and a pocket full of beefy biscuits and even the worst farm collie will soon be wagging his tail at the gate and drooling a regular greeting. Well, that’s my belief; tried and tested, although I did once have a narrow escape when an energetic and impatient collie jumped in through the open van window after his bone. Had a bit of trouble explaining the dent in the near-side wing of my little red van.
‘Swerved to miss a sheep-dog and caught the farm gatepost,’ I explained to the supervisor. Thought that sounded better than saying, ‘A sheepdog suddenly jumped onto my lap and put his feet into the steering wheel.’
That wasn’t the only thing he put his feet into. Them feet of his brought tears to my eyes that day, I can tell you! Twice, and all! Once coming in, and again, having grabbed his bone, as he made his getaway. After that, and even on the hottest summer’s day, you can be certain my window stayed up when approaching that farm.
There was also Sally Blackett’s cat to look out for. Big and black and hairy, he was, and must have weighed in at all of eighteen or nineteen pounds. You’d hardly have thought him capable of launching himself up at the letterbox, the size of him - but he could. There he’d cling, claws flailing to reach the hand trying to poke the letters home and peering out at me with the most malevolent pair of yellow eyes you’ve ever set eyes on.
You’d think a cat called Fluffy would be a daft, lazy old thing, now wouldn’t you? Not him. Not even when he happened to be lying sunning himself in Sally’s garden when the post arrived. Only once did I ever make the mistake of not keeping my eyes peeled for that fellow. Indeed, on that occasion I had seen him. Flat out he was, as I passed him but the moment I reached for the letterbox he struck… And a cat’s claws hooked into a postie’s posterior and suspending Fluffy’s bulk to dangle between the legs ain’t funny - whatever Sally and her elderly cronies, gossiping over the garden fence, might’ve thought. And didn't they laugh.
Dai ‘Posterior’ they started calling me after that but fortunately most folk abbreviated it to simply Dai ‘Post’, so little changed.
But there was worse - and it wasn’t Billy Lewis’s bull, Tarw Du, much as he used to like to charge along the wire fence after the van as it drove up to the farm.
Marge and Julie were two of the nicest middle-aged ladies any bloke could wish to meet. Always cheerful; always with the kettle on, and their home-made cakes and biscuits just melted in the mouth. Their small holding was the very last place anyone might imagine they’d encounter problems, although there were cats and dogs aplenty running around the place, most rescued from miserable lives. Under the patient love, care and nurturing of the two sisters these creatures changed from pathetic, half-starved scraps of skin and bone into well-fed, glossy-coated, energetic and loveable critters. Even the old gander who appeared on their yard one morning would happily eat crusts of stale bread out of my hand and seemed to look forward to my daily visits.
‘We’ve a new arrival,’ said Marge one morning.
‘A new arrival,’ echoed Julie.
‘It’s a billy goat,’ said Marge.
‘Billy goat,’ nodded Julie.
To tell the truth, before either of them said a word I knew just what had arrived. It was unmistakable. Nothing on God’s earth stinks quite like a billy goat. Not one that still has all his faculties, so to speak, and Casanova, as he was named, certainly had more than his fair share of those.
‘He’s quite a big boy, isn’t he?’ said Marge showing me their latest acquisition, and this time Julie only giggled.
That day Casanova was securely locked up in a loosebox and munching his way through a rack of hay. His coat was off white in colour and shaggy over a set of ribs you could have played tunes on. Despite the pong I felt sorry for the poor fellow and decided to bring him a few titbits the following day; not that he’d go short with Marge and Julie. Blossom, the pot-bellied pig was testament to that and she was waiting beside the van for her usual treat from me - without that she’d refuse to budge. I threw the usual handful of pig nuts into the grass beside the drive and she waddled off to start rooting for them. A nice pig, was Blossom.
It was a week later, on the W.I.’s day for running their market stall, that I had my first run-in with Casanova. I’d just popped the post in through the letterbox, knowing that Marge and Julie would be out at the market, when a devil of a ruckus started up in the yard. What would anyone do but hurry to see what was wrong?
There was Blossom in her usual place by the van but hardly ready for her nuts. In fact, at first it looked as if she was trying to defend my van, what with all her squealing, charging and threatening. Seconds later it dawned on me that it was really her honour at stake. That somehow Casanova had escaped and was feeling decidedly frisky. There he was, flicking his tongue in and out, snorting and blowing his amorous intentions at the indignant pig. Seeing my arrival on the scene, she made a beeline towards me for protection. That meant Casanova now stood between the van and both Blossom and me. Stood largely rampant on his hind legs, too and showing all to the world! Fair dancing, he was, and as nimble footed as a ballerina as he cavorted, shaking his horny head like some prancing Morris Dancer enacting the Rites of Spring.
At that moment Blossom suddenly decided she’d had enough. Not even the promise of a handful of pig-nuts could persuade her to hang around and she fled squealing to the safety of the barn. For a few seconds Casanova seemed to hover indecisively. Should he follow or turn his attentions to this new potential object of passion – me?
There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Not where he’d be unlikely to follow and besides, I could hardly leave him loose in the yard to confront the two sisters upon their return. There was only one thing for it. Somehow I had to capture Casanova and lock him back up in the loosebox.
Most folk believe that all a billy goat thinks of doing is to charge and butt them. Don’t ever be fooled!
Casanova’s facial expressions, passionate grunts and throaty rumblings left me in little doubt that his intentions were, to his mind at any rate, decidedly friendly.
You’ll never know just how glad I was that no one witnessed the next few minutes during which I somehow managed to catch hold of Casanova by a horn and manoeuvre him back to his box. It left me quite out of breath, and for a while I leaned against the locked and barred door, shaking from the effort, as Casanova clattered his front hooves up against it, rattling the bolt and convincing me that was the way he accomplished his escape in the first place.
Finally I returned to the van. There, in her usual place, Blossom was once more waiting for her nuts. My hand was still shaking as I reached into my pocket for the bag, but it was as I threw them into the grass Blossom gave an ear-piercing screech and fled once again for the barn. Puzzled, I watched her go, feeling quite hurt by her rejection but at least I felt she’d be safe enough to leave. It was only when I returned to the sorting office that I realised what had probably been to blame. That when the supervisor hauled up short and suddenly recoiled.
‘Where the hell have you been, Dai?’ he said and clutched a handkerchief to his nose and face.
Other colleagues, hearing the gaffer, also hauled up short and began to gag and hold their noses.
‘That’s a powerful perfume you’re wearing, Dai. What’s it called, ‘Eau d’ Goat’, perhaps?’ said one laughing.
The gaffer cast him a withering look and waved me out of the building and home for a bath, saying, ‘Reckon you smell like you’ve had a run in the slurry with that Miss Pot-bellied Piggy you’re so fond of.’
‘Hardly, Blossom wouldn’t speak to me,’ I said, still miffed - and neither would my wife when I got home. Why, I even had to take my uniform to the cleaners myself and when it returned it still carried a faint but unmistakable aroma of eau d’goat!
************
About the author: D.W. (Dai) Roberts
Retired rural postman, Dai ‘the Post’ Roberts has been married to Gwen for nearly fifty years and has three children and six grandchildren.
Dai took up writing anecdotal stories as a hobby when his eldest grandchild, Nicholas began to demand that he tell him a story. Dai’s other hobbies include gardening, reading and, more recently, mountain-biking! Dai, Nicholas, now in his twenties, and another grandson, Mark enjoyed a week’s cycling holiday, riding over two hundred miles in total and spending most nights under canvas a few years ago. When asked how he felt upon his return, Dai replied, ‘Like I’ve lived up to my nickname – Dai ‘Posterior’!’
by
D. W. Roberts
You’d think that the worst thing a postie might have to face on his rounds would be a vicious dog, wouldn’t you? Well, it ain’t! Not in my book. A regular supply of bones from the butcher and a pocket full of beefy biscuits and even the worst farm collie will soon be wagging his tail at the gate and drooling a regular greeting. Well, that’s my belief; tried and tested, although I did once have a narrow escape when an energetic and impatient collie jumped in through the open van window after his bone. Had a bit of trouble explaining the dent in the near-side wing of my little red van.
‘Swerved to miss a sheep-dog and caught the farm gatepost,’ I explained to the supervisor. Thought that sounded better than saying, ‘A sheepdog suddenly jumped onto my lap and put his feet into the steering wheel.’
That wasn’t the only thing he put his feet into. Them feet of his brought tears to my eyes that day, I can tell you! Twice, and all! Once coming in, and again, having grabbed his bone, as he made his getaway. After that, and even on the hottest summer’s day, you can be certain my window stayed up when approaching that farm.
There was also Sally Blackett’s cat to look out for. Big and black and hairy, he was, and must have weighed in at all of eighteen or nineteen pounds. You’d hardly have thought him capable of launching himself up at the letterbox, the size of him - but he could. There he’d cling, claws flailing to reach the hand trying to poke the letters home and peering out at me with the most malevolent pair of yellow eyes you’ve ever set eyes on.
You’d think a cat called Fluffy would be a daft, lazy old thing, now wouldn’t you? Not him. Not even when he happened to be lying sunning himself in Sally’s garden when the post arrived. Only once did I ever make the mistake of not keeping my eyes peeled for that fellow. Indeed, on that occasion I had seen him. Flat out he was, as I passed him but the moment I reached for the letterbox he struck… And a cat’s claws hooked into a postie’s posterior and suspending Fluffy’s bulk to dangle between the legs ain’t funny - whatever Sally and her elderly cronies, gossiping over the garden fence, might’ve thought. And didn't they laugh.
Dai ‘Posterior’ they started calling me after that but fortunately most folk abbreviated it to simply Dai ‘Post’, so little changed.
But there was worse - and it wasn’t Billy Lewis’s bull, Tarw Du, much as he used to like to charge along the wire fence after the van as it drove up to the farm.
Marge and Julie were two of the nicest middle-aged ladies any bloke could wish to meet. Always cheerful; always with the kettle on, and their home-made cakes and biscuits just melted in the mouth. Their small holding was the very last place anyone might imagine they’d encounter problems, although there were cats and dogs aplenty running around the place, most rescued from miserable lives. Under the patient love, care and nurturing of the two sisters these creatures changed from pathetic, half-starved scraps of skin and bone into well-fed, glossy-coated, energetic and loveable critters. Even the old gander who appeared on their yard one morning would happily eat crusts of stale bread out of my hand and seemed to look forward to my daily visits.
‘We’ve a new arrival,’ said Marge one morning.
‘A new arrival,’ echoed Julie.
‘It’s a billy goat,’ said Marge.
‘Billy goat,’ nodded Julie.
To tell the truth, before either of them said a word I knew just what had arrived. It was unmistakable. Nothing on God’s earth stinks quite like a billy goat. Not one that still has all his faculties, so to speak, and Casanova, as he was named, certainly had more than his fair share of those.
‘He’s quite a big boy, isn’t he?’ said Marge showing me their latest acquisition, and this time Julie only giggled.
That day Casanova was securely locked up in a loosebox and munching his way through a rack of hay. His coat was off white in colour and shaggy over a set of ribs you could have played tunes on. Despite the pong I felt sorry for the poor fellow and decided to bring him a few titbits the following day; not that he’d go short with Marge and Julie. Blossom, the pot-bellied pig was testament to that and she was waiting beside the van for her usual treat from me - without that she’d refuse to budge. I threw the usual handful of pig nuts into the grass beside the drive and she waddled off to start rooting for them. A nice pig, was Blossom.
It was a week later, on the W.I.’s day for running their market stall, that I had my first run-in with Casanova. I’d just popped the post in through the letterbox, knowing that Marge and Julie would be out at the market, when a devil of a ruckus started up in the yard. What would anyone do but hurry to see what was wrong?
There was Blossom in her usual place by the van but hardly ready for her nuts. In fact, at first it looked as if she was trying to defend my van, what with all her squealing, charging and threatening. Seconds later it dawned on me that it was really her honour at stake. That somehow Casanova had escaped and was feeling decidedly frisky. There he was, flicking his tongue in and out, snorting and blowing his amorous intentions at the indignant pig. Seeing my arrival on the scene, she made a beeline towards me for protection. That meant Casanova now stood between the van and both Blossom and me. Stood largely rampant on his hind legs, too and showing all to the world! Fair dancing, he was, and as nimble footed as a ballerina as he cavorted, shaking his horny head like some prancing Morris Dancer enacting the Rites of Spring.
At that moment Blossom suddenly decided she’d had enough. Not even the promise of a handful of pig-nuts could persuade her to hang around and she fled squealing to the safety of the barn. For a few seconds Casanova seemed to hover indecisively. Should he follow or turn his attentions to this new potential object of passion – me?
There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Not where he’d be unlikely to follow and besides, I could hardly leave him loose in the yard to confront the two sisters upon their return. There was only one thing for it. Somehow I had to capture Casanova and lock him back up in the loosebox.
Most folk believe that all a billy goat thinks of doing is to charge and butt them. Don’t ever be fooled!
Casanova’s facial expressions, passionate grunts and throaty rumblings left me in little doubt that his intentions were, to his mind at any rate, decidedly friendly.
You’ll never know just how glad I was that no one witnessed the next few minutes during which I somehow managed to catch hold of Casanova by a horn and manoeuvre him back to his box. It left me quite out of breath, and for a while I leaned against the locked and barred door, shaking from the effort, as Casanova clattered his front hooves up against it, rattling the bolt and convincing me that was the way he accomplished his escape in the first place.
Finally I returned to the van. There, in her usual place, Blossom was once more waiting for her nuts. My hand was still shaking as I reached into my pocket for the bag, but it was as I threw them into the grass Blossom gave an ear-piercing screech and fled once again for the barn. Puzzled, I watched her go, feeling quite hurt by her rejection but at least I felt she’d be safe enough to leave. It was only when I returned to the sorting office that I realised what had probably been to blame. That when the supervisor hauled up short and suddenly recoiled.
‘Where the hell have you been, Dai?’ he said and clutched a handkerchief to his nose and face.
Other colleagues, hearing the gaffer, also hauled up short and began to gag and hold their noses.
‘That’s a powerful perfume you’re wearing, Dai. What’s it called, ‘Eau d’ Goat’, perhaps?’ said one laughing.
The gaffer cast him a withering look and waved me out of the building and home for a bath, saying, ‘Reckon you smell like you’ve had a run in the slurry with that Miss Pot-bellied Piggy you’re so fond of.’
‘Hardly, Blossom wouldn’t speak to me,’ I said, still miffed - and neither would my wife when I got home. Why, I even had to take my uniform to the cleaners myself and when it returned it still carried a faint but unmistakable aroma of eau d’goat!
************
About the author: D.W. (Dai) Roberts
Retired rural postman, Dai ‘the Post’ Roberts has been married to Gwen for nearly fifty years and has three children and six grandchildren.
Dai took up writing anecdotal stories as a hobby when his eldest grandchild, Nicholas began to demand that he tell him a story. Dai’s other hobbies include gardening, reading and, more recently, mountain-biking! Dai, Nicholas, now in his twenties, and another grandson, Mark enjoyed a week’s cycling holiday, riding over two hundred miles in total and spending most nights under canvas a few years ago. When asked how he felt upon his return, Dai replied, ‘Like I’ve lived up to my nickname – Dai ‘Posterior’!’