Rosie stood watching the farm yard goat.

 

It drunkenly reclined against a wood stump, chewing on a pine cone and coughing up bits of dry bark. This specific goat was in fact mad. It had developed oggilylitus, a made-up word farmers give to goats who have completely lost it. It’s comparable to a severe case of ‘the giggles’, and just as ‘the giggles’ is incurable, so is oggilylitus.

Rosie knew this goat well. She’d spent much time bonding with it and very much like this goat, Rosie was also a tad mad. She was by no means suffering from oggilylitus or any equivalent farm yard nonsense, if only it were that simple. No, Rosie’s madness stemmed from her strong belief that she herself was turning into a goat.

 

She peered around the field, checking she was alone. No stalkers, parents or monsters. Her father had banned her from visiting the goats after she ‘came out’. She told him she can’t change; this is who she is. He told her to change, be anyone other than who she is. And so she visited the goat pen in secrecy. It felt like a dirty affair but without the sex.

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No longer did the goats take notice of her. No more bounding across the pen to greet her, clambering on each other’s heads, kicking the little kid goats in the face. Rosie brought no treats, no food pellets or fertile females. She simply brought herself and they’d seen that a million times before. But Rosie wanted it that way, she didn’t want to be viewed a spectacle. Instead she just wanted to be accepted as herself, a girl turning into a goat.

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She tugged the sleeves of her tight kagool, trying to narrow the bare gap between jacket and jeans. As she clicked open the lock on the gate and walked into the pen, she looked around for a less soggy patch of grass to perch on. All the good places were taken, as per usual, and goats never give up their spot for a latecomer.  

She welcomed her new family, respectably nodding at the older goats. They sat in a huddle, slowly chewing the cud with their eyes closed, as if she wasn’t there. Finding a dry patch of leaves, Rosie spun around in a few circles before sitting down, similar to that of a dog. She wondered if goats did that spinning around thing or whether that was just domesticated animals. She hoped she wasn’t turning into a dog.

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Her body impersonated the goats sitting stance, everything tucked under, head held high with a content, natural smile. No one asked about her day but goats don’t care for small talk. She opened her mouth and cried out like a goat, making the dozing goat next to her jump. A few other heads turned, making her feel embarrassed. She wasn’t quite ready to make the goat noises, she decided.

 

Rosie hadn’t always been this way inclined. She had followed the system; gone to school, gone to university, worn shoes and eaten sandwiches. Yet the whole time during this shoe eating, sandwich wearing routine, she always felt like she was waiting. Waiting for something to start, for it to start. It wasn’t happiness she was waiting for; she would break wind then chuckle, a common happy incident, nor was it life; she was consciously aware of her existence. But like so many, she couldn’t stop thinking. Is this it?

It wasn’t until one stuffy Tuesday evening when she visited the circus that she was able to make sense of it all.

 

At the circus, Rosie sat alone on a rickety metal stall. The smell of dropped popcorn and the sound of loony old men shouting abuse at clowns. The ringmaster introduced the next act, an acrobatic cross dresser who called himself Jessica. Jessica got on with his performance, erotically dancing, whilst all the time unaware that the two pieces of fruit had fallen from his stolen bra. After a few minutes of this high-class entertainment, he brought out a beautiful anglo-nubian goat. Rosie was in awe of the creature from both its sense of self and inability to cooperate. Jessica was attempting to stand upside down on one hand whilst balanced on the back of the goat, but it was having none of it. The animal wasn’t outlandish or cruel in its rejection, it was just done with the whole circus thing. The circus members seemed to succumb to its decision and as the goat effortlessly hopped over the crappy ring barrier and left the tent, no one tried to stop it. In doing so, this goat took Rosie out of her own head and into its own. From now on Rosie would practise this goats attitude in her own life. Unfortunately for her mother, it was not the passing phase she hoped for. Instead, it engulfed her daughter’s existence and became her life.

 

Rosie no longer ate with her family at the dinner table but instead demanded all food to be thrown on the floor. She also washed less, crawled on all fours when permissible and slept on a stump of wood in the garden. She was however still interested in the usual things young girls are interested in, such as stalking boys. She had no luck with real life boys due to her animalistic stench and insistence of chewing the kitchen curtains. She did have more luck online however. A boy named Billy instantly took her fancy so he invited her to a farm for a date. First impressions weren’t great as she quickly learnt Billy was in fact not a billy goat. Putting appearances behind her she continued with the date, feeding the donkeys and laughing at the pigs. Billy soon ended the date when Rosie ate all the food pellets herself and chased the other visitors for theirs. Rosie spent the night in the goat pen and Billy reported her to the police.

 

Rosie scrunched up her nose as the fierce wind hit her face. Her messy fringe was caught in her lashes and her eyes were dribbling uncontrollably. She refused to push the hair out her face or wipe her nose along her sleeve. Goats didn’t have this luxury so neither would she. A stray piece of straw flew into her face and she opened her mouth, sucking it in like a hoover. It soaked up all the saliva in her mouth as she swallowed.  

 

A few weeks back Rosie’s father had found her in this goat pen. It was similar to a parent walking in on their daughter and boyfriend in bed together, especially as Rosie was caressing an attractive male goat at the time. When she saw her father on the other side of the gate she froze and pushed the animal off her. Considering the situation, she felt safer inside the pen with her kind until she learnt her father could quite easily flick the lock and march in. This is exactly what he did with his big, fat, stupid wellies, stomping all over her nice home. She darted from him, scattering around the pen on all fours like panicked cattle. He tried to grab her, slipping in the mud but steadying himself by grabbing the rear of a larger goat. The rest of the herd fled, sticking as one and leaving Rosie to it. Rosie’s dad grabbed what he thought was his daughter but turned out to be an old sock she was using as a tail while waiting for hers to grow. While he was still confused, examining said lone sock in hand, Rosie joined her herd and galloped across the meadow into the sunset. She saw her father later at dinner and neither one brought it up.

 

The mad goat suffering from oggilylitus stood up on its hind legs then walked around the pen like a young lady. It was definitely mad.  Rosie watched the animal and envied it for having completely lost it. She believed there is nothing worse than being in-between madness. Those that are half mad remember their absurd actions. Yet those who are completely bananas simply don’t care or know that they don’t care. This is why Rosie felt too embarrassed to make the appropriate goat noises, much to her annoyance she was still a bit sane. The mad goat smiled at her then, reclined in the water trough as if it were a relaxing bath. This goat was the same goat that had fled from the circus all those years back. It had stumbled upon this herd similarly to how Rosie had; a sign titled ‘goat herd that way’. Rosie owed a lot to the goat and always told her. She believed you should always tell people how you feel.

 

It was noticeably darker now and Rosie would have to start her trip back home. She was scared of the dark and goats don’t use torches, a tricky situation she avoided pondering over. Her legs were uncomfortably numb from sitting and she’d been ignoring the throbbing cramp pounding down her calf muscles. She rocked side to side, gently trying to loosen everything up then flicked out her twisted arm which hit the water trough, causing the mad goat to sneeze. She slightly cheated as she arose, using a nearby goat’s horns to hoist herself up to the human standing position.

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Leaving the pen was the saddest part of her day, it all stood for a giant metaphor of giving into social norms and not being yourself too much. She waved to the goat leader who turned its head away, maybe having not seen her. The mad goat spoke a bit of Russian and Rosie kissed it on the head. As she closed the gate she gave in to the hard-lump sat in her throat and had a little weep. She didn’t want to return to her human house, answer all the usual questions, ‘Where have you been?’ and ‘Why do you smell of faeces?’.  Sometimes she lied and said she had been getting blindingly drunk. Her parents seemed to prefer this to the truth.

 

As she neared her front door she thought back to the mad goat and its impressive bilingual skills. An animal that all those years ago stood up to the circus freaks and changed Rosie’s life forever. Rosie looked at the glorious mud between her fingers and kissed her soon to be hooves. She believed she was turning into a goat and didn’t care what anyone thought. She got down on all fours, a position forbidden in her household and kicked open the front door. She trotted through the living room and started chewing on the curtains whilst all the time ignoring her parent’s screams. She loudly and proudly made the ‘baa’ goat cries, deliberately waking up her younger brother because to her, making such goat noises no longer seemed ridiculous.

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The end.