Hitched(34)

Hope





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The square is packed with excited citizens of Happy Cat, young and old, who’ve joined us on the warm spring morning to roll out their mats and do yoga with the baby goats.

We’re inside a temporary fence so our four-legged friends don’t run off. And while I’d love to be in downward dog with the twenty-five happy yogis warming up with sun salutations, I’m busy supervising the kids scampering over their backs and bottoms, handing the giddy baby goats carrots when they get too interested in ponytails and moustaches.

Hoof massages with a side of adorable are one thing.

A haircut or a ’stache trim by baby goat, however, is not what any of these Zen-seeking citizens signed up for.

Sadly, I don’t realize the flaw in my carrot treat plan until it’s too late.

One minute, I’m giving Vinnie Van Goat a carrot. The next, George Cooney, the world’s most gluttonous pet raccoon, is charging through the temporary fence, shaking off the orange netting stuck in his back paw as he snatches a baby carrot from Biscuit the Kid’s mouth.

Poor Biscuit rears up in surprise, which would be one thing if he weren’t standing on the fire chief’s back. But he is, and a beat later he’s sliding down her neck, making Jessie flinch as he somersaults onto the grass with a bleat of terror.

And following the law of Baby Goat Chaos Theory—when one kid goes down, they all go down.

Or off-their-rockers in panic, as it were.

“George!” I shriek as he takes off after another goat, who has dropped his carrot and is running in hysterical circles in response to Biscuit’s alarm.

His lordship the trash panda flips me off—I swear he does—and scampers around what’s left of the enclosure, making yogis and goats scream. He tosses aside mats and knocks down more of the fence in his quest for baby carrots, careless of the Zen and property he’s destroying as he literally steals snacks from the mouth of babes.

“George, STOP! Bad raccoon! Bad!”

When did the little beast get so fast?

How is he so fast?

He’s the size of three normal raccoons, but he’s dashing around like he’s half-cheetah, and of course the babies are freaking out in response. In nature, a predator of George’s size would be big enough to pose a survival threat to little goats, especially if he came crawling around with a few hungry friends.

George wouldn’t hurt a fly—he’s after the carrots, not the babies—but the little guys don’t know that. They’re acting on instinct and instinct is apparently telling them to hurl their tiny bodies at me, the yoga class, the fence, and anything else that might possibly offer protection or shelter.

“George, please,” I beg as Star, the yoga teacher, implores her class to, “Take a deep breath, and let it out with a call for peace.”

But no one is listening. To either of us.

The yoga class is on their bare feet, dodging flashing hooves, and George is in a carrot-feeding frenzy.

Normally, he’s far too lazy and spoiled to actually hunt for his food. But I guess being on an ice chip and cricket diet since his run-in with the peanut butter has made George hangry.

And hangry George is actually kinda terrifying.

People are screaming, while Jessie tries to help me catch the rampaging trash panda.

But all too soon, I realize I have bigger problems. Namely—my baby goats are escaping, because George has destroyed the fence.

“No!” I shriek. I toss the rest of the carrots on the ground and take off, unsure which direction to start. The baby goats are even faster than George, and the streets of downtown soon echo with the frantic hoof beats of my runaway charges.

Passing motorists are honking, shouting, and weaving.

Terrified toddlers out for a pre-school field trip at the fire station squeal as Pepper crashes into their orderly line, tangling their toddler leash system.

“First things first, first things first,” I mumble. Scanning my immediate surroundings, I spot a goat climbing into the slide and decide to start there.

I need to get my little buddies back into the trailer on my truck. One at a time.

Which is going to take forever. If I manage to get the job done at all.

There are goats all over downtown.

In the streets.

On the tables in the picnic area.

Digging up—oh, geez.

Ankle Biter’s found a dildo that must’ve gotten buried under a pine tree during a prank last year, when the factory’s products were used to litter the square. He’s clutching it sideways in his mouth like an overgrown cigar and using it as a sword to fend off Widow MacIntosh, who’s trying to corral him.

Actually—that dildo looks awfully familiar.

It could be Dildo Shaggins’s older cousin. In blue, instead of purple.

I shake my head, because not the time, Hope.

Especially now that I’m hearing sirens.

“Oh, no.” I clutch the kid I’ve just pulled from the slide tunnel, where he was curled up in a trembling ball, to my chest and stand, scanning the square.

There, on the other side, is a sheriff’s cruiser pulling up in front of the yoga studio.

“I’ve got one,” Star says breathlessly, trotting across the playground with Mickey, a white baby goat with mouse ear markings in black on his back. She follows my gaze, her smile falling away as she sees the flashing lights. “Oh, no. I’m going to get a ticket for violating my permit and letting goats run wild all over downtown. Aren’t I?”