Snapshots

The day that Percy showed up was as normal a day as any. Our sunny patio was extra inviting this particular midafternoon, and as I finished cup three of instant coffee I heard a weak bleat from our lower yard. My family doesn’t have any livestock, nor do our neighbors, with the exception of the old man across the street who herds his three cows up and down the dry river bed behind our house, so I certainly wasn’t expecting to see a goat tied to a pole by its foot. “Hi Percy,” I called without thinking.

Oh you idiot, I instantly berated myself. Don’t name your dinner! But a little voice inside whispered, "Maybe he won’t be dinner! Maybe we’re holding onto him until the family in the village can come get him and then Percy can lead a happy goat life in the fields!"

My mother didn’t know what the goat was for, nor did my grandmother – no one seemed to have any idea as to who had brought the goat, or what his purpose ultimately was, and my delusions for him grew.

That evening I was told that we had to bring Percy down to a neighbors house for the night, since they had a shed. This was my first time ever moving a scared goat, and it was initially very unproductive. Goats are stubborn on their best days, and when they’re unamused, terrified, and tied up by their leg they tend to be even more ornery. Trying to lead Percy with the rope proved utterly futile, and seeing no other way to move the unhappy ungulate up the stairs and down the street, I did the logical thing and picked him up.

Living in a place where Ladas regularly have turkeys on the rooftops, and old Soviet military trucks are used to transport grapes, I would think that one American carrying a goat down the street would not be that bizarre or hilarious.

How wrong I was.

There was clapping, laughing, picture taking – activities that I expect at a child’s birthday party, not at some silly foreigner hauling livestock around in a sorry attempt at being helpful.

Percy and I parted happily, and I knew that he would spend the rest of his days living the good life; fat on grass, running under the sunshine, enjoying the breathtaking view of the Caucasus mountains in the magic hour light.

The next day, upon my arrival home, a goat was hanging upside down, skinned, in the tree. Two large, smoking, shirtless Georgian men were looking proudly at it and my heart sank.

Maybe it’s not Percy, I desperately thought. Maybe it’s some oth-. Oh. There’s his head.

I will never name my food again.