Page 29 of Booked for Kidnapping

I limped to the nearest goat, who thought prancing on top of the hood of somebody’s junker counted as the most entertaining thing he’d done in his life. Keeping on hand on my cane, I waited for the rascal to stop moving for half a second before grabbing hold of his horn and pulling his head down. Thus contained, I pulled the goat towards the lowest part of the vehicle so he could make the jump to the ground without hurting himself. He cooperated better than most goats I’d met before, and I had him on the asphalt and contained within a few minutes of cajoling and gentle pulls on his head.

“Okay. That had to have been pure magic,” Senator Westonhaus said, staring at the goat I held. He then took a picture of my latest conquest. “Now what?”

I nodded in the direction of the truck, which had managed to rope several of the goats to the vehicle while people struggled to catch them. “We secure the beast there, and we go catch another one.”

“You made that look easy.”

“Once you have control of their head, it’s manageable. It helps these are pretty small for goats. It’d be simple if these were fainting goats. We’d just wait for them to fall over, halter them, and we’re done. Alas, these aren’t fainting goats. These are trouble goats.”

“What species of goat are trouble goats?”

“Every species of goat,” I admitted, keeping the goat’s head pinned to my upper leg while hobbling in the general direction of the vehicle the goats had escaped from. Rather than bracing his legs and forcing me to drag him, he followed along. “Goats are trouble. All of them. I really like goats. I didn’t enjoy the goat farm portion of my education, although I have to admit, I do find them to be rather good in stew.”

Following my example, Senator Westonhaus grabbed a goat by the horns. Unlike mine, which seemed resigned to the situation, his put up a fight.

I gave the politician some credit. The goat waged a valiant war, bucking and kicking and doing its best to free itself from his tyrannical clutches. Alas, it proved no match for the man, who dragged it over as though he’d spent most of his life working in a barn of animals rather than making laws.

“Now I’m impressed, Senator,” I informed him. “Is this your first time goat wrangling? Maybe I made it look easy, but you caught a goat that wants nothing to do with being caught.”

Several nearby noticed how we wrangled our goats, and they jumped into the fray, joining in the chase to corner goats on or near vehicles. I didn’t envy the drivers or their insurance companies.

Hoof prints surely took a great deal of work to remove from the hood, roof, and panels of a car.

“I tried my hand at roping calves once. I’m terrible at it, but I learned a few tricks. The way I figure, the hard part is making sure I don’t hurt the animal, but it doesn’t seem like goats are too inclined to try to snap their own necks when you have them by the horns.”

I bet I’d tweaked his pride. After all, if I could do it, while juggling a cane, he could as well. “After seeing what some of the goat owners will do to get their stubborn animals on the move, it became obvious I could use a little force without hurting them. This one is being unusually good.”

At the truck, the beleaguered driver, who likely had gotten hired to haul and not wrangle, struggled to figure out how to get the animals back into the truck without losing them each time he added a new one to the fray. I counted lead lines, determining he was about twenty leads short of keeping all of the goats contained.

In good news, most of the goats were haltered, which would turn an otherwise impossible job possible.

The goat I’d captured lacked a halter, which meant he needed to go into the truck with the others that had been recaptured.

“Sorry,” the driver mumbled.

Poor guy; judging from his accent, he came from somewhere south of the city and hadn’t done more than pass a few farms before being hired to handle the adorable hoofed minions of the devil. Rather than join the rest of the New Yorkers prone to snapping harsh commentary while pitching in, I offered him a few tips to get the stray goats in without losing the ones he’d already caught before looking over the chaos on the streets and giggling at the sight of stock market brokers mingling with the blue collar, all joining forces in an attempt to contain mother nature’s natural prankster.

“Have I mentioned I love goats?”

Senator Westonhaus chuckled. “I had figured that out around the time you started beaming at their antics. If you smile much more, you might hurt yourself.”

Huh. I realized he was right; I grinned enough my cheeks ached. “But they’re goats. How can goats make anybody mad? Look at them. They’ve stopped traffic, and the complaining is at a minimum. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.”

“I had expected a lot more profanity and risks of violence. New York has a reputation.”

We did, but most people failed to realize that beneath the reputation of strict efficiency and grouchiness lurked kind people who would—and did—go out of their way for others. Unfortunately, in true New York fashion, that kindness came at a price, usually.

I’d learned to speak up and ask for help if I needed it, else I’d get a scolding. The last time I’d gotten scolded, I’d been waging a battle with a shitty wheelchair and some steps. A giant of a man had taken offense to my struggle, stolen my chair, ordered me to stay put or else, and had handled the steps before offering his arm and making sure I made it without incident.

Every step of the way, I’d gotten a lecture over how I needed to just ask if I needed help rather than be a stubborn goat.

I regarded the goats around us, determining I shared an amusing number of similarities with the animals.

I allowed myself a laugh at the insanity of it all.

SEVEN

I recognized the fog of sedatives.