Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Write for the HUMOR Genre (10/09/14)
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TITLE: Billingham, the Tale of a Gardening Goat | Previous Challenge Entry
By Anita van der Elst
10/15/14 -
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Eventually I found Mrs. Dunwoodie wasn’t all bad. And it broke my heart how one particular incident ended.
It began when the HOA found Mrs. Dunwoodie’s yard unacceptable. Would I please let her know she must get rid of the weeds?
“Your solution may not be the best, Mrs. Dunwoodie,” I said, standing on her porch, trying to keep a straight face. “The accumulated results from the goat eating the weeds may raise more complaints.”
Mrs. Dunwoodie’s eyebrow cocked. “Mr. Fenster, Billingham has more talents than getting rid of pestilential weeds. You’ll see.” She glared at her next door neighbor Mrs. Fishwaite’s house. “Like dealing with pestilential busy-bodies!”
Later, checking on the goat’s progress, I could hardly restrain my laughter as Mrs. Fishwaite barreled out of Mrs. Dunwoodie’s yard. “That goat is quite the motivator, isn’t he, Mrs. Fishwaite?” I commented.
Mrs. Fishwaite skidded to a stop at her gate. “That woman is a menace! My prized vase is missing and she has it. And she threatened me! She said if I didn’t want a goat’s horn stuck in one kidney and a Viking helmet horn in the other, I’d better scram. Then that mangy goat poked its head out and laughed at me!”
Not a lone-ranger type, Mrs. Fishwaite gathered residents to protest Mrs. Dunwoodie’s weed extermination choice. Armed with literature proclaiming the goat’s detrimental existence, they assembled on Mrs. Dunwoodie’s lawn.
“Billingham’s gardening skills help tremendously,” Mrs. D informed them, inhaling deeply. “Weeds gone—allergies gone.”
Then her upper lip curled, “But I can see you don’t care. Okay then. Once Billingham has chewed and digested all your literature, he’ll be happy to leave an opinion of you that you may step in and track home with my complete blessing!”
This did not sit well with Mrs. D’s neighbors. Making matters worse, Billingham developed a taste for Mrs. Fishwaite’s designer jeans. “You’d think a person could hang out her laundry without getting goat slime on them,” the offended lady fumed.
Even the vet, who’d never met an animal he didn’t like, wasn’t too keen on the beast. Impatiently he explained, “Billingham does not need upper dentures, Mrs. Dunwoodie. Those lower teeth are all he was designed to have, serving him well from what I hear.”
I had hopes folks would change their tune after a monastery, famous for bringing back the art of illuminated manuscripts incorporating ornate lettering, exclusively chose the brushes Mrs. Dunwoodie fashioned from Billingham’s hair. It put Bloomsville on the map. Then too there was the night when Billingham inadvertently became a hero. An intruder attempted to break in to Mrs. Fishwaite’s house. The scoundrel almost made it across the yard but then he stepped right in it. Billingham, in his generosity, had shared his fertilizing methods, and the smell took the would-be thief down.
Yes, folks were grateful. But it didn’t last. At the lawn party Mrs. Dunwoodie gave honoring Billingham, disaster struck. Mrs. Fishwaite wore her best frock, a lime-green affair featuring ruffles sewn upon ruffles sewn upon ruffles. In spite of Mrs. F’s outrage as those ruffles disappeared behind Billingham’s more than adequate teeth, my mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. “That outfit might have been appropriate for a 1960’s wedding,” I told her, “but everyone knows that goat loves his greens.”
Unfortunately for Billingham, and for Mrs. Fishwaite, she had worn that dress to a wedding in the 60’s, a less than conventional wedding in which something psychedelic spilled onto those ruffles. Oh, what a head-butting contest ensued between Mrs. F and Billingham, from one end of town to the other. The noise made the hair curl on the back of my neck, which is saying a lot since I am extremely follicley-challenged.
After the ruckus settled, Mrs. Dunwoodie asked for my help. But try as I might, I could not cancel out the evidence of Billingham’s final rampage through Bloomsville. And although I didn’t participate, the poor critter’s fate involved tar and feathers and being run out of town on a rail. How Mrs. Dunwoodie grieved.
Until the one-eyed pirate showed up at her door. But that’s another story.
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