Tuesday, September 3, 2013
"I am not entirely confident," I said, "about having only one man between us and the caprine hordes. What if that man is injured, or changes career? Think about it, if the only thing that anyone says about you is 'He's that guy respected by goats', the satisfaction will eventually wear off and you'll want something more more out of life. So you stop taking cellphone calls. Then the goats respect no-one and there will be no holding them back."
"He needs an apprentice," Another Kiwi vouchsafed. "They should train a back-up. I can do that. How do you earn the respect of goats, anyway?"
"Beat them at activities they value," I said. "Much as Eric Stark won the fealty of the telepathic Northhounds by killing their leader the great king-dog Flay."
"So with goats, you have to eat more underpants than they can?"
"I hope this is not leading up to a Keats-&-Chapman joke," I said, "with 'Chacun à son goat' as the punchline."
"Oh dear," said AK, hurrying away, "look at the time. I promised to help tigris pack the Cuvierian tubules into her costume for 'Come as your Favourite Holothurian Night' at the Old Entomologist."