A bit of a scavenger looking for good news today, or at least cheerful news, in this world with its all-too-grimy bad-news preferences. I admit I couldn't find much in the ways of joyful reading - and that my sense of humour may not be shared by many - but just enough on this day to make a morning of sunshine even sunnier, there was the Abbotsford goat story.

It was a tale about a lady being confronted by a goat trying to gain uninvited access to her kitchen. She called the police, as the animal first tried to butt her kitchen door off its hinges then, when denied, turned its attention to a minor rampage on the front porch.

When two officers arrived, the younger of the duo "with four years experience" tried to shoo the goat away by poking it with a stick. The senior officer "with 30 years experience" grabbed the animal by the scruff of the neck, applied a headlock and deposited it in a place where it could butt and batter without raising undue alarm or cause damage only to itself.

As I read, I wondered if the officer would be reprimanded by animal-rights groups for using unnecessary force during the "arrest" or for failing to read the goat its rights before slapping on the headlock. And I spent a few wonderful minutes lost in thoughts remembering my own experiences with goats, when at various stages of development they provided my young family with milk, entertainment, high adventure and confrontation, often at the same time.

I have forgotten the name of the first goatpet adopted when we lived in Cedar circa 1954, but remember well its distinguished performance one fine show-and-tell morning when delivered to school as the prize exhibit for a lunchtime display. The animal, being cared for by my first wife, Joyce, and four lively sons at the time, was used to children but a little overexcited by a schoolyard noisily full of them. I was conveniently at work (as most young husbands tend to be in times of crisis) when Joyce got the call that our beast was on a bit a rampage and scaring the children. A Land Army girl in the Second World War and capable of handling a team of Clydesdales and a plow in the field, Joyce responded quickly and with the goat's best friend, five-or six-year-old son Timothy assisting, shooed classmates and teachers into the safety of classrooms and walked sedately home with the goat on a leash.

It was the goat's only show-and-tell.

When we moved to Penticton in 1957, we acquired two goats, Goldie of motherly attitude and provider of milk, and Pancho, young, lively, lover of mischief with a penchant for jumping on the roof of cars. Two leaps, one to the bonnet, then a hop to the roof.

Pancho's trampoline act without a trampoline was always regarded as delightfully funny until one Sunday afternoon a friend came around to show us his new sports car convertible - with the top down.

I remember screaming "No! Pancho! No!" as with an evil glint in his eyes and bleating with joyous goat laughter he did his first leap, barely touched the bonnet then, I swear, actually grinning as one front hoof neatly sliced the canvas as he landed perfectly balanced on the canvas top. Had that been Pancho's only sin, we might have found forgiveness for his misdeed, but, alas, he was prone to other adventures neighbours didn't appreciate, so as we tried to explain to the children, we had to "find a better home for him" with tractors and farm carts to jump on - although, I'm sure to his dismay, no convertibles with their tops down.

My friend never sent a bill for repairs. He graciously said I had warned him about Pancho so it was his own fault. But, even after Pancho was long gone to pastures new, my friend never again left his convertible in my driveway.

Not much of a story, really, but maybe an encouraging advisory to those who on a daily basis slug their way through a thousand stories trying to decide on the best mix for Times Colonist readers. Not an easy task when the flood of stories from around the world crests mostly on tragedy, with light-touch tales all-too-rare exceptions.

I just thought I'd let the "sorters" know the Abbotsford goat was a bright spot on an otherwise grey day, and I'll bet I wasn't alone in my enjoyment - or in remembering goats in the family.

jhume@shaw.ca