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Sinning Like a Goat
We used to own goats. We had one goat, named “Gali Gali,” who had its ear torn off by a pit bull who lived next door. Gali Gali promptly earned the monicker “Gali Gali Van Goght.” (My father shot the pit bull with a shotgun the next time it came over, and the dog made it home to bleed out on its owner’s front porch.)
I loved that goat. He was smart, headstrong and inquisitive. He also liked to dance, kind of a “watch me look like I am going to flip over sideways” kind of dance. Specifically, when my grandfather would come up to our house in his fine Lincoln Continental, Gali Gali would take one look at that shiny car, and promptly skip onto its long hood and prance away, leaving lots of little devilish footprints. My grandfather did not think it was as funny as we did.