I am the saviour of baby goats.
Late last week, the grounds outside City Hall were transformed into a giant barnyard as part of the Mayor’s Rural Expo – a celebration of all things rural. With the abrasive screech of local country music twanging in the background, I strode out of the building mid-morning, past the giant plaster cow and the grown-ass men wearing cowboy hats in downtown Ottawa.
I shook my head at the spectacle and focused intently on my goal of getting a coffee to help me deal with all this when what did I spy from the corner of my eye but a tiny, darling white baby goat bouncing around on the lawn, outside its pen. I changed course to take a closer look, and sure enough, the goat was roaming free, and his keeper was nowhere to be found!
I rushed to the rescue, scooping up the darling creature and, cradling it in my arms, I hied it back to safety
Without my intervention, there is little doubt the baby goat would have wandered directly onto the heavily trafficked Laurier Avenue; led like a lamb to the slaughter by the thrilling whoosh of shiny, brightly coloured cars. In a spray of blood, it would have perished – mown down like a common goat in the street by the unfeeling urbanites in their chrome and steel death-mobiles.
This was clearly no place for an innocent rural creature to be left unattended.
That day, I rescued a baby goat from certain death. I was the unsung hero of the expo. And while none of the exhibitors even nodded in my direction or gave me a hearty clap on the back, the cry from the animals on display in their pens was clear: “All hail Shepherd Boy,” they cheered, “the hero of the Mayor’s Rural Expo!”
It came out as kind of a “baaaaaa/moooooo” noise, but I got the picture.