I just shrug. “Fine with me.”
We go over everything that’s needed for one of our town’s biggest annual celebrations. Then Weber heads down the stairs, talking about how he’s going to roast Jed White’s corn next to some steak for dinner.
After lunch we get a call from dispatch.
“Hey, boys! Mabel here.”
“What’s up, Mabel?” Champ says into his handheld.
“Well, I tell ya. It’s never a dull moment,” Mabel says.
“Mind sharing what the call is?” Champ asks.
“Oh. Yes, yes. Seems Decker was tryin’ on the Corny costume and the zipper broke. The costume won’t come off. It’s hot as blazes in the barn, and dark, so he stepped outside. Now he’s being chased around the field by a herd of goats.”
Champ chuckles. “We’ll swing by.”
“Don’t break that zipper, Champ,” Mabel says. “And don’t hurt the costume. We need it in one piece for the parade.”
“What on earth was he trying it on for?” Truck mumbles to himself.
Champ answers Mabel, “We’ll be careful.”
“Okay, ten-four that.” She ends the call.
The three of us head out to help Decker out of the corn suit commonly known as “Corny,” our Bordeaux Days mascot costume. When we arrive, a giant six-foot tall, cartoon-looking cob of corn is running zigzag through the field while goats hop, butt and leap, kicking their legs out sideways all around him. One goat seems intent on nibbling at the edges of the costume.
Decker’s yelling, “Help me! Help me! Somebody, help!” from inside the costume.
“We’re here,” Champ shouts over to Decker.
Decker weaves and turns toward Champ’s voice. “I can’t see a thing in here. The fabric fell in front of my eyes. And my hands are stuck!”
“Stand still,” I shout to Decker.
Decker stops in his tracks.
A brown-and-white goat eyes me, and then it turns, lowers his eyes and backs up a few steps.
Truck shouts “Watch out!” right as the goat rears back and runs, butting Decker square in the backside.
Decker goes flying forward, and then he falls like a tree after the final chop.
Truck hops the fence, steps in front of the herd, claps his hands, and shouts, “Git goats! Git.”
Every goat stops—even the goat that just butted Decker.
Truck smiles broadly. “Gentlemen, that’s how it’s …”
He doesn’t even finish his sentence when the goats all charge at him.
Truck turns, jogging away from the goats and shouting back to us, “They did not git.”
I bend over laughing. “No. They sure did not.”
One little goat starts leaping like he’s doing a victory dance, sprinting from spot to spot, ricocheting off fencing and random stumps or anything he can find. He’s kicking his feet up to the side with every leap and his eyes are fixed on Decker, or at least they seem to be. It’s hard to tell with goat eyes.
I jog over to Decker. “Let’s get you out of this field.”
