Don't Let the Judge Get Your Goat

May 30, 2018

            The day started out pretty much as usual. Up at 5:00 AM. By 7:00, my morning chores were done. But today, you see, would be no ordinary day. For today, I was going to town. Bob would care for the farm until I returned. By 8:00 I was ready to go.

 

            But wait, what's this? Someone is pulling in at my gate. Darn – no doubt it's an animal problem. A young woman stepped out of her car. As I greeted her, she handed me a “baby goat” wrapped in a towel. She explained that it was born in the night and had been rejected by its mother. The woman had no knowledge of newborn care. She asked if I would please take her. Of course I would. As I jetted back to the house to warm a bottle, over my shoulder I called out, “Oh, by the way, this is a lamb, not a goat”! She looked at me, obviously clueless. Ignorance is bliss, I thought.

 

            Well, now what? No problem. Off to town we'll go. Been there, done that. People aren't used to seeing me without an animal in tow anyway. I'll quickly prepare....

 

            Baby Bottle ✔

            Shoulder Bag ✔

            Powdered Formula ✔

            Blanket ✔

            Pee Pads ✔

            Parking Pass ✔

            Jury Summons ✔

 

Having packed all of the necessary supplies, off we went. This would no doubt prove to be an interesting day.

 

            As I drove along, I thought to myself: When I explain my plight to the judge, she will surely excuse me from jury duty. No doubt she'll be understanding, especially when I explain that Bob doesn't do newborn care on the farm.

 

            Upon arrival, I parked, then placed the baby bag securely over my shoulder. I checked in (obviously before the days of heightened security standards) and found a seat. We were then marched across the street like a herd of unwilling cattle.

 

            When we arrived at the jury room, I chose a seat far in the back as to not be noticed. The baby goat (I mean, lamb) was tucked down deep in her bag. She was being quiet as a mouse, quite content after being given a bottle. Therefore, I was surprised when the bailiff sauntered over and curiously peeked into my bag. His eyes widened! He turned and approached the judge. Moments later, she rose, her gavel hitting the desk so hard that the room shook. The room went silent. You could have heard a pin drop. “Someone has the audacity to have brought a goat into my courtroom!!!”, she shouted. She didn't sound happy at all. She couldn't be talking about me, could she? I slid down low in my seat as if I would become invisible. I glanced around to see  if there might be someone else in the room that had brought a goat. If there was, I couldn't see them from where I sat.

 

            “Chic Miller”, she bellowed! “Stand!” Drat, she was talking about me, all right. I stood, slowly and sheepishly (no pun intended), my cheeks flaming. “Guilty with an explanation”, I stammered. “Take her and her goat away!!!” My plea had fallen on deaf (and angry) ears. My, my, this isn't going at all as I had expected.

 

            As I was swiftly ushered out, under my breath I muttered, “Just for the record, Judge Judy,  it's a lamb, not a goat”. We marched slowly back across the street, my mind racing fast forward. Would I be spending my evening in Tom Bosenko's fine hotel? Perry Mason, where are you when I need you? As it turned out, after a good scolding and a few hours left alone to think over my wrongdoing, we were released.

 

 

 

 

            Both “Precious” and I have kept ourselves out of any further trouble with the law (no time on the lamb, so to speak). We both learned a valuable lesson that day. When facing a day in court, never, ever let the judge get your goat (I mean, lamb). So for now, my friends, this case is closed!

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