Page 46 of Tangled with the Tight End

But seriously? Who loves being head-butted this early in the day? If she wanted my admiration, she could take this whole Bruise the Babysitter campaign down a notch.

Jenny suddenly leaps up onto the couch and then takes another leap so she’s perched on the back of the couch like she’s playing King of the Mountain. She makes a maaaaaahhhaaaahhh sound.

Bleating? Braying? Baaing? I don’t know what goats call that guttural shrieking.

I look her in the eyes. “I made more teaching seniors to use their cell phones and not one of them head-butted me.”

She answers me with a, “Maaaaahhhllllahhhhhhaaahhhehehehe.” It’s almost like she’s taunting me.

“Let’s go outside and play with your tire,” I suggest.

I walk to the back door and Jenny joins me in one leap, straight off the back of the couch to my side. It’s impressive.

“Wow,” I tell her.

Maybe flattery will get me somewhere.

Sally, Jenny’s owner, left a bag of feed for me to give Jenny.

I rattle the bag, holding it at arm's length. We stare at each other. She has the eyes of someone who has never lost a negotiation in her life.

She butts me again for good measure.

“Hey!” I say. “That is not the way you’re getting any of this, missy!”

I didn’t sign up for a morning as a punching bag. Maybe I should change the word whatever in my job posting.

Goats are just taller dogs with horns and funky eyeballs.

I can do this.

I open the back door, expecting Jenny to leap and skitter outside. But she’s got her unfocused gaze lasered in on the paper bag in my hand.

“Okay, okay,” I say, opening the bag and sprinkling some into my hand. She rabidly gobbles it up, her little goat-lips brushing in quick pulses across my palm.

“That tickles,” I tell her.

She looks up at me as if to say, You like that? Keep giving me the pellets. Otherwise, I’ve got horns and I know how to use them.

“I know!” I tell her. “You’re a bully. Have you heard of a billy goat? Well, you’re a bully goat.”

Despite my big words, I sprinkle more pellets in my hand and Jenny goes to town.

When the bag is empty, I show her. She sticks her face in and the bag gets momentarily stuck on her nose. For one glorious second I think, I've won!

Jenny takes off running. Full speed. Blind. Shaking her head violently and darting left and right. Directly toward the fence. She pivots at the last second as if using radar, running pell-mell toward a bush. The bag snags on a branch and catches. With one last shake of her head, Jenny sends the bag flying like a projectile, straight in my direction. It smacks my shin and flops to the ground.

Jenny: 9. Me: 0.

I reluctantly step backward until my legs hit an outdoor porch chair. I plop down into it, never taking my eyes off Jenny. She stares me down, but pivots to butt the tire swing.

Note to self: goats are not pets. Not for me, anyway.

I’m exhausted by the time Sally gets home.

“How’d it go?” Sally asks, her face drawn up in concern.

I don’t have to tell her. She knows.