The Goat

What a week. I'm down to my last "free day," and what I've discovered is that my writing rhythm has changed. Now I have to figure out the new one.

I used to write first thing in the morning, shortly after I woke up. Lately it's been happening right before bed, because the day got away from me. Again.

I've also discovered a blockage. Not in the "Dargie, you should get an enema" sorta way. A mental one. I'm holding myself back from writing the pieces I actually want to write because I'm time-constrained. This will not do.

I keep a list of articles and ideas I want to get to. Then I find myself at the end of the day, pressed for time, so I go back to the trough, stick my face in, pull out an old tire, and chase it around the yard.

In this story, I'm a goat. I leave my toy tire in my trough. I get bored, chase it around the yard until it bounces over the fence, and then I'm left standing there, bleating, watching it roll down the hill, hit a rock, and land squarely on the windshield of a passing truck. The truck screeches to a halt. Nobody is hurt. It's the farmer. He looks up at my paddock, shakes his fist, picks the tire up off the side of the road, throws it in the back of his truck, and drives it home.

Grumbling, he gets out, grabs the tire, and chucks it over my fence. It bounces twice and lands in my trough. I know the game. Cras rursus ludemus.

This is the way of the goat and the farmer.