No, it’s not the title of a new Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew book. It happened right here on the farm!
Last night, as we were doing our nightly chores in the goat barn, I noticed something on the ground a few feet behind their grain trough. At first, it looked like a dead mouse or vole, but upon closer examination, I saw that it was lacking a head, legs, and tail. My next thought was, “Do we have an owl in the barn?” as I thought it might be an owl pellet. My mind immediately raced toward the possibility of a nocturnal bird of prey slipping into the chicken coop, and picking off our little Picard Hen. After all, we haven’t had the opportunity to install end caps on the soffit – so one could, conceivably, slip through those openings in the eaves, and have a feast.
But the likelihood of that diminished as I considered the facts: our little Banty hen went missing during the day; I discovered her disappearance at dusk when we were closing up the coop. And I’d expect to see more losses if an owl actually managed to get into the coop. George concurred.
Also, as I examined the suspected owl pellet, I noticed that the fur was too directional – typically, when an owl regurgitates the indigestible matter from its meal (feathers, fur, and bones), it’s a rather clumpy affair, like the examples seen here. Curiouser and curiouser…
Then, as I observed aloud, “It looks like there is a point of attachm…” It struck me like an enraged wolverine. “That’s no owl pellet, it’s a space station!” (No. Not really. But I use that line whenever possible.) But really, I realized what I had found.
Goat scroat.
Billy bits.
Caprine cojones.
Withered wether wingnuts.
Yup. I had stumbled upon Gheb’s Balls.
Y’see, one method by which a buck is neutered, and therefore, becomes a wether, involves placing bands called elastrators at the top of the testes. This cuts off the blood supply, gradually killing the tissue, which eventually detaches from the body. When we brought him home, the process was already underway, but incomplete. I did notice that he had lost his nards last week, and wondered where they might have fallen. I wonder if I win a prize for finding them. Kind of like the person who found the mouse head in Emo Phillips’ coleslaw. Hmm.
I asked George if we should have them bronzed. He was unamused.
I’ve also suggested that this might inspire some new children’s books – a sort of farm-based Waldo series called, “Where’s My Balls?” It could be interactive, with sound, so that when the kid finds the nuts hidden in the pictures, they’d be rewarded with a distinct Nubian Yell from Gheb.
Who knew that goat gonicles could be so inspirational?
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