His eye is on the...baby goat. Not exactly the same ring to it.
*****
I rescued a baby goat from inside a latrine today.
I heard its weird, distant-yet-not cry from my kitchen and went out to investigate. My first thought was that it was in the latrine with the door shut, so I checked my neighbors closed outhouse and it was empty. I checked the open one and yes, he was inside - all the way in the bottom of the pit looking up at me with its tear-filled eyes and begging me in its own bleating way to just get him out of there.
Now, before you gag, let me tell you that 98% of my community does not use latrines. Normally I cringe at that, but in this instance, it worked in my favor - and the goat’s. The latrine that some NGO had come in and built years ago was still standing, still unused, the ground practically dry save for the few mud puddles that had collected in the previous night’s rain storm.
I looked around for someone, but everyone was gone, so I went inside and got a rope, trying to figure out a way to rig a noose and get it wrapped around his neck to pull him out. When I got back, I found a woman nearby and told her what was up. She was amazed that I’d even heard the thing. I told her, in not so many words, that sadly I’ve not yet acquired the ability to ignore some of the most piercing noises on the planet (shrieking children, crying goats and egotistical roosters chiefly among them).
In the three minutes it took me to cut and tie the rope, more people had amassed and by the time I stepped into the latrine there was a small crowd of bored women and children taking a break from their morning chores. I’m glad that the entertainment I provided today actually served a purpose, as opposed to the other fascinating times where I’m just, you know, sitting on my porch, breathing.
I dropped the rope in the hole, the knot dodging wicked spider webs (think the temple scene in The Last Crusade where Indiana Jones figuring out the clues to get through the maze that will lead him to the cup of Christ - my mom always said they were made from Elmer’s Glue…) and randomly placed bricks to get the rope to the goat’s head. I had him several times, but he was directly beneath me, so every time I pulled, the rope came off. My friend Issah squeezed inside the room a few moments later, long stick in hand, and, together, we roped the goat and pulled him to freedom.
I wish I had a camera. That goat was so insanely happy to be out in the air, he couldn’t figure out the way to get to his mother. Everyone was cheering and laughing and hugging one another in that stereotypical way that always happens at the end of Hallmark movies when the underdog beats the top team. It was just one of those moments where, cheesy as it sounds, I felt like “this is the kind of thing I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”
And I probably will - because it’s not every day (at least where I come from) that you can say you pulled an animal from the clutches of a long and arduous death, also known as the bottom of a latrine.
I rescued a baby goat from inside a latrine today.
I heard its weird, distant-yet-not cry from my kitchen and went out to investigate. My first thought was that it was in the latrine with the door shut, so I checked my neighbors closed outhouse and it was empty. I checked the open one and yes, he was inside - all the way in the bottom of the pit looking up at me with its tear-filled eyes and begging me in its own bleating way to just get him out of there.
Now, before you gag, let me tell you that 98% of my community does not use latrines. Normally I cringe at that, but in this instance, it worked in my favor - and the goat’s. The latrine that some NGO had come in and built years ago was still standing, still unused, the ground practically dry save for the few mud puddles that had collected in the previous night’s rain storm.
I looked around for someone, but everyone was gone, so I went inside and got a rope, trying to figure out a way to rig a noose and get it wrapped around his neck to pull him out. When I got back, I found a woman nearby and told her what was up. She was amazed that I’d even heard the thing. I told her, in not so many words, that sadly I’ve not yet acquired the ability to ignore some of the most piercing noises on the planet (shrieking children, crying goats and egotistical roosters chiefly among them).
In the three minutes it took me to cut and tie the rope, more people had amassed and by the time I stepped into the latrine there was a small crowd of bored women and children taking a break from their morning chores. I’m glad that the entertainment I provided today actually served a purpose, as opposed to the other fascinating times where I’m just, you know, sitting on my porch, breathing.
I dropped the rope in the hole, the knot dodging wicked spider webs (think the temple scene in The Last Crusade where Indiana Jones figuring out the clues to get through the maze that will lead him to the cup of Christ - my mom always said they were made from Elmer’s Glue…) and randomly placed bricks to get the rope to the goat’s head. I had him several times, but he was directly beneath me, so every time I pulled, the rope came off. My friend Issah squeezed inside the room a few moments later, long stick in hand, and, together, we roped the goat and pulled him to freedom.
I wish I had a camera. That goat was so insanely happy to be out in the air, he couldn’t figure out the way to get to his mother. Everyone was cheering and laughing and hugging one another in that stereotypical way that always happens at the end of Hallmark movies when the underdog beats the top team. It was just one of those moments where, cheesy as it sounds, I felt like “this is the kind of thing I’ll remember for the rest of my life.”
And I probably will - because it’s not every day (at least where I come from) that you can say you pulled an animal from the clutches of a long and arduous death, also known as the bottom of a latrine.