Swan for the Money(26)

“Twenty-three in this pasture,” Mr. Darby said. “And—”

The handle of the bucket clinked just then, and Spike began barking furiously at it.

“Hush,” I said. Spike subsided into soft growls. I watched Spike closely, but he seemed to be focused on the bucket, and not anything else in the vicinity.

“You might want to keep him away from the goats,” Mr. Darby said, as we neared the fence. Ahead, I could see a pasture, with half a dozen shaggy black-and-white goats peering expectantly through the fence, as if waiting for dinner.

“He’s on a leash,” I said. I tightened my grip on the loop, just in case. “And his bark is really worse than his bite. Or were you worried that they might trample him?”

“Not really,” Mr. Darby said. “Actually—”

Spike lunged forward as far as the leash would permit and erupted into a frenzy of short, sharp barks. His bark was remarkably deep for an eight-and-a-half-pound furball.

When they heard him, the half dozen goats loitering near the fence turned as if to run. Then all but one keeled over as if an invisible bowling ball had slammed into them. They lay on the ground with their legs held rigid and straight out, looking for all the world like wooden toys knocked over by a careless child. The last goat remained upright, but froze in place. I suspected he was as rigid as the others, but had the good luck or good balance to remain upright.

“Shut up, Spike,” I snapped. “Look what you’ve done.”





Chapter 11





Spike actually shut up, as if he was just as startled as I was.

“Myotonic goats!” my grandfather exclaimed. “Fascinating!”

He ambled over to the fence and peered down at the prostrate goats with far greater interest than he’d shown when he’d thought they were mere color-coordinated yuppie farm accessories.

“What’s a myotonic goat?” I asked. I was relieved to see that the goats were coming around, shaking their heads and starting to scramble to their feet. The one who had remained standing started walking, stumbling a bit with the first few steps, but quickly returning to a normal gait.

“Also known as Tennessee belted fainting goats,” Mr. Darby said. “Or wooden-leg goats.”

“Or stiff-legged goats,” Caroline put in. “Nervous goats. Sometimes Tennessee scare goats.”

“Stiff-legged goats is probably the most accurate term,” my grandfather said. Had everybody heard about these goats except me? “They don’t lose consciousness, so they’re not technically fainting.”

“Then what is happening to them?” I asked. The goats seemed fine, and Mr. Darby didn’t seem particularly upset by what Spike had done to them.

“They suffer from an hereditary genetic disorder called myotonia congenita,” my grandfather said. “Basically, when startled, their muscles lock up temporarily. If they’re not well balanced at the time, they fall over.”

“It’s not just being startled that does it,” Mr. Darby said. “Any sudden stimulus. Heck, if I give ’em an especially good feed, half of them will keel over out of sheer joy.”

“Hasn’t anyone tried to fix this?” I said. “Identify the goats with this genetic defect and keep them out of the gene pool?”

“On the contrary,” Caroline said. “Some breeders have worked hard to keep the trait in the gene pool.”

“It’s not considered a defect,” Mr. Darby said. “It’s just a feature of the breed.”

“A useful feature for sheep herders,” my grandfather said. “A lot of them use these goats to protect their sheep.”

“Like llamas?” I asked. “But if they faint when startled, how do they scare off predators?”

“Not like llamas,” my grandfather said. “They don’t scare the predators off. They fall down and get eaten, allowing the more valuable sheep to escape.”

“The ultimate scapegoat,” Caroline said, shaking her head.

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“Presumably predators aren’t a problem for these goats,” Caroline went on. “You don’t have many wolves roaming the Virginia countryside.”

“More’s the pity,” said my grandfather. “We need more natural predators to keep the deer population down.”

“No wolves,” Mr. Darby muttered. “Just her.” Meaning, I had no doubt, Mrs. Winkleson.

He leaned over to pour the contents of his bucket into a trough just inside the fence. Five of the goats scampered toward the trough, while one keeled over, possibly startled by the clanking sound the bucket made hitting the trough. From farther off, we could see other black-and-white forms headed our way.