Before I commence my diatribe about my next door neighbors, I will state for the record I am not a vegan. Yes, Virginia, I do eat meat. But, in the Grand Scheme of Things, just who makes the rules about what animal flesh is deemed more appropriate than others when it comes to chuck wagon time? All the recent talk about saving America's wild horses from the slaughter plant is well-intentioned and I personally would hate to see horses treated this way, but why are horses sacred and not cattle, or chickens, or...goats?
A couple of very hot Saturdays ago, Kman got up with the chickens to mow the St. Augustine and trim the hedges. For nearly three hours he worked in the yard, the burning Texas sun making hard work more wretched. He kept hearing what sounded like a small child crying; pausing his shrubbery shears to listen more closely, he thought it seemed to come from two doors down, from the house where 3 to 4 Mexican immigrant families moved into last year.
Kman walked across the lawn for a better look and sees a goat kid tied up in the back of a black Chevy truck, the rope no more than a few inches long, pulling the little feller's head down so tight he can't sit or move his head more than a slight bit. Judging from how long Kman has heard him bleat, the goat had been in the hot sun for at least three hours. No water, of course.
Coming into the house, Kman was flushed red in the face from more than the heat, he was angry that someone would treat an animal this way. We tried calling the county humane society, but got a recording that no one would take our call until Monday. So, I called the local police. The dispatcher seemed a little put out with my call and said she would "try" to reach an officer in the area to take a look.
About twenty minutes later, a couple of squad cars pull up to our curb. Two young cops get out, saunter Barney Fife-like up our yard and stand there chewing gum, hands on hips.
"Yep, that's a goat, Ma'am."
(What was your first clue, Inspector Clouseau?)
"Is he making too much noise? Is that what you're calling the police for...Ma'am?"
(No, I'm calling the police so I can be ridiculed, putting my tax dollars to good use.)
The upstanding Men in Blue tell us that they will ask the neighbors to take the goat around to the backyard where it won't disturb us any longer. We watch them walk across the lawn, sniggering, one landing an elbow jab to his partner. In a few minutes, a Mexican man comes out, unties the goat and drags him into the house.
Quick Draw McGraw and his sidekick, Babba-looey, come back to tell us that we didn't spare the kid for much; the Mexicans already had one goat completely butchered and ready for the fire pit. This little one we were concerned about was probably already half-skinned.
I asked if there weren't any laws on the books against slaughtering livestock in one's backyard.
"Nope", was the answer. "Besides, cabrito is good eatin'!", Babba-looey said with a hungry smile. (It was close to lunchtime.)
The brave men climbed back into their ac'd cruisers and went in search of a free brisket sandwich at Riscky's BBQ and maybe on the way, find some real criminals who would put hard coin into the city coffers: those dastardly drivers who violate the speed limit by 10 mph. Now those are serious offenders.
Kman and I stood stupidly in silence and watched them drive away. We wondered how this would have been different if the animal in the back of the hot black truck had been a dog?
The next city council meeting, Kman and I are gonna drag a calf into the meeting and ask if we can use the flagpole to string up it on for proper blood draining and ease of carving since there is no law against butchering live animals within city limits. We'll build up a big fire and invite all the City BigWigs to a barbeque on the front lawn of City Hall.
Whooeee, whose gonna bring the piñata?
Dale, dale, dale,
No pierdas el tino
Porque si lo pierdes
pierdes el camino.
Ya le diste una,
ya le diste dos,
ya le diste tres
¡y tu tiempo se acabó!
That poor little goat's time was surely over.
*I might add that the immigrant neighbors also fire off handguns after midnight every Christmas and New Year's Eve. They have huge backyard parties nearly once a month and fill the night air with strains of Old Mexico and the smell of roasting meat. Our middle-class, white-bread neighborhood could have used some excitement, but unfortunately, the Mexican immigrant lifestyle has only caused property values to plummet. Ours is an aging neighborhood; average homeowner age probably 65 or older. When a neighbor dies these days, the heirs want a quick sale with no bother or expense to update. This makes prime real estate for some legal Mexican with funds to purchase these homes cheap, and turn them into multi-family rentals for illegals. We are watching our equity shrink by the day.
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