(frybread) Goat Rights vs. Property Rights

I was sitting around yesterday, about to log onto the stupid internet and waste twenty more minutes of my life, with no one else home, when I figured, fuck it, I might as well go for a walk to the end of the road. The wife and kids would be coming home from ballet class, so I’m sure they’d pass me somewhere along the way, because I didn’t really mean to walk for a couple of hours.
I enjoy the concept of walking through wherever you live, with the attitude that even if you drive a road a thousand times, you don’t really see it as closely as you would by walking it. I got past the first deep gulley where some kid died hitting the guard rail a few summers ago and there’s still a plastic bouquet of flowers in the curve. That made my heart pump a bit, not that I’m fat, but I could definitely use dropping a few pounds, and reconditioning myself. By the time I went through the second deep gulley dip in the road, going up to the old commune set back off the road where the old couple brings us dumpster dove bread sometimes, I was in the mode and not huffing at all. It was all overcast like it might start raining again any moment, and cool, unless the sun busted through to make it too hot every now and then. I got up towards the end of the road where the farm pastures start, and laughed at all the young black cows staring at me like I was gonna shoplift from them. The opposite side of the road, the pasture rose above the road about nine or ten feet along a bank, and I could hear a goat freaking out. All my goats are dead, but I know that sound. Something was fucked up. I pulled myself up the bank and saw for some reason a little square of fenced out land in the pasture (probably some phone line bullshit or something) and two goats had gotten their heads stuck in the fence squares trying to get at some better varieties of weeds. I looked through the fence and thought, “Fuck.” It wasn’t my land to be tromping around on, nor my goats to be concerned about. Plus, I didn’t need no wigged out goats goring me up accidentally with their horns.
So I walked the last half mile to the end of the road, thinking the family would be along shortly and I’d just ride past it on the way home. Or if they didn’t come (which they didn’t), they’d be loose all ready and okay, ignoring the obvious that goats are retarded creatures (that’s why they’re called nature’s presidents), and can’t get themselves unstuck, and that’s why you’re not supposed to use square fencing with bigger openings like what this pasture had for goats to graze inside of. Almost back to that spot, I heard the goats still freaking out, so I walked through some woods to where an entry gate was, and not only were those two still stuck, but there was a third one stuck on the front fence line. By this point I had kind of figured this was a test. When I still had my goats, I did a lot of hanging back with them in their pen, and they’re pretty chill animals. But before getting back, I came to the conclusion my respect of arbitrary property markers was pretty stupid, and exactly what faggot Republicrat/Demolihicans would want me to respect. And it seemed silly to leave three living goats to be stuck, hoping whatever other human claimed ownership of them would come along to save them before they died. So I jumped the gate, and went in to the first goat. He was big, but smaller than the ones I had. But mine had had their horns burned off, which is a decent idea to keep from getting fucked up, and doesn’t hurt them when their young kids just like circumcising baby boys is painless. (Yeah, I know.) When I got near him, he was freaking the fuck out, trying to jump through the little square to the outside to get away from me. I thought he was gonna break his fucking neck before I could help him. So I calmed him down by petting him for a minute, then angled his head until the tip of the horns went back through the same square he was stuck in. Then I had to work his neck backwards a little, and he gave it a yank and was free and did this weird bounding back-and-forth wobble hop run thing that goats do when happy and tweaked.
The second one went way easier, being smaller, and a pretty friendly little fellow. He was actually the one calling out when I passed by the first time. He got out and took off. The last one ended up being the hardest one because every time I got near the back of his head to try and move his horns out, he’d flip out in paranoia mode and twist his whole body around so he could look at me. I even think he snipped at me a couple of times, but I’ve never seen a goat bite anything other than bushes, so that probably wasn’t the case. I had to do the chill petting thing with him, and it took some goat head twisting to get his horns pointed back through in the right direction, to the point I thought I might end up breaking his neck getting him out. Lots of times, that’s how goats die, is from broken necks, and then they just lay there dying, their BWAAAs getting more and more feeble. He finally pulled out and took off quick, to join the other hundred goats halfway across the field. Behind me, two miniature horses with long blonde hair had meandered over and were looking at me like, “What the fuck is up with this dude?” All I did was leave, not stepping in cow shit once, and walk the rest of the way home. It was then, passing one of the speckled steel guard rails in the curves of one of the gulleys, that I was gonna start carrying big, thick Sharpies and go on these walks and write things real tiny in the curve of guard rails, where no one will ever notice it driving past, and probably the only people who do see it will be the Mexicans cutting the grass along the roadside for the state, and they won’t be able to read my scrawly English.