Chapter 12
Boone
The Cedar Ridge Goat Agility Competition is exactly as weird as it sounds, which is why I entered Rita without telling Callie. Sometimes you need to embrace the ridiculousness of our lives, and what’s more ridiculous than goat athletics?
The event’s being held at the fairgrounds, the same place where Rita first brought our families together with her chili-destroying rampage. Full circle, when you think about it. Back to the scene of the crime. Literally.
“Why are we here?” Callie asks, looking around as I lead her to the registration tent. She seems relaxed today, laughing at something Jesse just texted her about the irrigation meeting coming up.
“We’re supporting local agriculture,” I say, stalling.
“You don’t like agriculture. You once said plants were boring and dirt was just ‘outside dust.’”
“I’ve grown as a person.”
“You’ve grown more suspicious is what you’ve grown.”
That’s when she sees the banner: “FIRST ANNUAL CEDAR RIDGE GOAT AGILITY CHAMPIONSHIP—MAY THE BEST GOAT WIN!”
Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “Boone McCoy, what did you do?”
“I may have entered Rita in a small, harmless competition that she’s definitely going to win because she’s athletic and coordinated and—”
“Rita thinks coordination is what other goats do while she’s eating their equipment.”
“Hidden talents, Callie. She’s got hidden talents.”
“She’s got hidden stomach contents from eating things she shouldn’t. That’s not the same thing.”
But it’s too late to back out now because Mrs. Delaney is approaching with a clipboard and the expression of someone who takes goat agility very seriously. She’s wearing a vest with OFFICIAL printed on it, which seems excessive for a goat competition but very on-brand for Cedar Ridge.
“Thompson! McCoy! So glad you could make it. Rita’s in heat three.” She pauses with a coy smile. “Interesting that you came together. Very interesting. I’ll make a note.”
She scribbles on her clipboard. I lean over and see she’s written “TOGETHER AGAIN—PROGRESSING???” with three question marks.
“We didn’t come together,” Callie protests. “We arrived at the same location at approximately the same time through completely independent transportation methods.”
“Heat three. Don’t be late. The judges don’t tolerate tardiness. They once disqualified a goat for sneezing during the ‘stay’ portion of the course.”
We head to the warm-up area where approximately twenty goats are milling around with their owners, most of whom look way too serious about this.
There’s a woman in matching athleisure with her goat, both wearing purple.
A man who’s been training his goat with a whistle and flash cards.
A teenage girl doing yoga poses while her goat copies her, which, I have to admit, is pretty impressive.
And then there’s us with Rita, who’s currently trying to eat her competitor’s registration number.
“Rita, no!” Callie pulls her back. “That’s not food, that’s paperwork.”
“Seems like everything’s food to Rita,” I point out.
“Which is why this is going to be a disaster of epic proportions.”
“Or an epic triumph.”
“There’s no triumph in Rita’s vocabulary. Only chaos and dietary indiscretion.”
The agility course looks intense with jumps, weave poles, a tunnel, balance beam, and something called a “pause table” where the goat has to stay still for five seconds. I give Rita zero chance of completing any of these successfully.
“Look at that course,” someone says behind us. It’s Tommy Burke with his goat, Mildred, who actually looks athletic. “Mildred’s been training for six months.”
“Rita’s been training never,” Callie mutters.
“Natural talent doesn’t need training,” I say confidently.
“Rita’s natural talent is destruction.”
“Exactly. She’s going to destroy the competition.”
“Heat three!” the announcer calls through a megaphone that’s turned up way too loud. “Rita Thompson and... owner?”
“Handler,” Callie corrects. “Very reluctant handler who was not informed of this event and does not consent to whatever’s about to happen.”
“Noted for the record!” the announcer says cheerfully. “Though consent is implied by participation!”
We make our way to the starting line. Rita immediately spots the judge’s clipboard and lunges for it. The judge pulls it away just in time.
“Control your animal,” she says coldly.
“I’m trying. She has authority issues. And impulse control issues. And general existence issues.”
“And eating issues,” I add helpfully.
The judge makes a note on her clipboard. Probably “TERRIBLE GOAT—WATCH CLOSELY.”
The whistle blows. Callie releases Rita, who takes off like a rocket... in completely the wrong direction. Instead of heading for the first jump, she makes a beeline for the judge’s table where someone has foolishly left a box of ribbons.
“Rita, no! The course! THE COURSE!”
But Rita’s already reached her target. She grabs a blue ribbon in her teeth and prances around with it like she’s already won. The crowd starts laughing. Someone’s filming. The judge is not amused.
“Disqualified!” she announces into her megaphone.
“We haven’t even started yet!” Callie protests, but she’s trying not to laugh.
“You started when the whistle blew. Your goat has left the designated course area and is destroying event property.”
“She’s demonstrating initiative,” I say.
The judge glares at me. “The goat must complete the prescribed course in the prescribed order.”
“Rita doesn’t believe in prescriptions. She’s more of a holistic, freestyle goat.”
Callie’s trying to retrieve Rita, who’s now eaten half the ribbon and is eyeing the judge’s coffee. “Come on, Rita. Let’s finish this humiliation properly.”
But Rita has other plans. She’s spotted the tunnel and charges toward it, dragging the rest of the ribbon like a banner. For a brief moment, I think she might actually complete part of the course.
Then she gets halfway through the tunnel and stops. Just... stops.
“Is she stuck?” someone asks.
“She’s not stuck,” Callie says. “She’s... thinking.”
“In the middle of a tunnel?”
“She’s thoughtful.”
That’s when we hear the sound of fabric ripping. Rita emerges from the other end of the tunnel with the entire inner lining in her mouth, the tunnel collapsing behind her.
“That’s destruction of property!” the judge shouts.
“That’s Rita,” Callie and I say in unison.
The judge storms over, clipboard clutched like a weapon. Rita, viewing this as a threat, does what Rita does best. She charges. The headbutt catches the judge in the stomach, sending her stumbling backward into the pause table, which collapses.
The entire crowd gasps. Multiple phones are out.
“Your goat assaulted me!” the judge sputters from the wreckage.
“She was defending herself,” Callie says weakly, trying to hold her laughter. “You approached aggressively. With a clipboard.”
Security arrives and we’re escorted from the premises. Rita trots alongside us, still dragging the tunnel lining and looking pleased with herself.
“Lifetime ban,” the security guard informs us. “You and the goat. From all fairground events. Forever.”
“That seems excessive,” Callie says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
“Your goat ate evidence, destroyed equipment worth three hundred dollars, and assaulted a nationally certified judge.”
“Allegedly assaulted.”
“We have seventeen videos from different angles.”
As we’re walking to the parking lot, officially banned, Callie’s still laughing. “We just... got banned... from goat agility,” she gasps. “That’s a thing that happened.”
“It’s going on our permanent record,” I tell her.
“Good. I want it on my tombstone. ‘Here lies Callie Thompson. Banned from competitive goat sports.’”
She’s beautiful when she laughs like this, really laughs, without any weight on her shoulders. The sun catches her hair and her eyes are bright with tears from laughing.
I reach for her hand to help her up from where she’s doubled over, but Rita chooses that moment to escape again, yanking the lead so hard that Callie needs both hands to control her.
“Oh no you don’t,” Callie says, wrestling Rita back. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”
Rita bleats and goes for my shoelaces.
“She has excellent taste,” Callie says, getting Rita under control.
“In shoelaces?”
“In partners.” She grins at me. “Thanks for this. Even if it was a disaster.”
“Best disaster ever.”
“Rita’s specialty.” She loads Rita into the truck. “Want to come to dinner tomorrow? Dad’s going to be out, and I’m attempting to cook something that doesn’t involve a microwave.”
“Absolutely. As long as Rita’s not helping with the cooking.”
“Rita’s banned from the kitchen. Another permanent record.”
She drives away laughing, and I think about how perfect she looked in that moment, covered in goat hair and arena dust, tears streaming down her face from laughing so hard. No distance, no walls, just Callie being Callie.
Two days later, we’re at the ranch dealing with the irrigation inspector situation. Everything’s about to go sideways in spectacular fashion.
Jesse comes running from the house like his ass is on fire. He skids to a stop. “We have a problem.”
“What’s up?”
“The irrigation inspector is here right now. Didn’t know he was coming today. He needs both ranch signatures for the water rights renewal.”
“So? Dad signs it, done. He’s back in town, so we’re good to go, right?”
“Yeah, but the inspector wants Dad’s signature and Mr. Thompson’s signature. On the same document. At the same time. In the same place.”
“Oh.” I set down my tools. “That’s going to be interesting. And by interesting, I mean potentially violent.”