Billy

It was a sunny, blindingly-golden day when I first saw him. He sprang out from behind a corner on the heels of my young nephew who was answering my call. Perhaps he thought I was calling him. Or her. I couldn't tell because my new friend was a young goat. The cutest little goat you ever saw. All white with a skinny little neck and ears that stuck out and twitched the flies and insects away.

It was one of those moments when you know something interesting is about to happen. You just have a feeling. I knew Kid Billy and I would share some minutes. Whether good or bad I'll let you decide.

Nephew took off for town with mum and dad leaving me alone with ol' Billy. Could I just leave him there and go home? No, he pretty much wanted to follow me around wherever I went. The thing that was bugging me was I didn't actually know who he belonged to. I'm not so up on goat knowledge that I can distinguish goats by sight and be able to say confidently, "Oh there you are Kostaki! I thought you were Marika coming up to play another trick on me. Where's your sister?"

So up and down the village streets I roamed, Billy on my heels, looking for some old granny in black or a hardened old man with a telltale worried look about the brows that would enable me to dispose gracefully of my charge before enjoying a cold frappé back home. But the streets were deserted. I'm thinking, "Great. These people let their animals roam about and just assume they'll come home when they get hungry."

As it turned out, Billy wouldn't get hungry at all; he was finding quite a lot to nibble and munch on at the side of the road, among wild grasses and the feet of twisted olive trees in abandoned lots. Sometimes he looked completely engrossed in his feeding and I took the opportunity to try and make a quick getaway and leave the little bugger for someone else to find. But no sooner would I step away a metre than the little smart-ass would suddenly lift up its head and come running after me.

I decided it couldn't be helped. I would lead him to my auntie's goats which were tethered a short way up the winding street in a wild patch of raised grass among thorns and bushes. I knew she only had 2 goats of her own. Maybe this one was a relative that was being fattened up by a neighbour. Who cares? I thought. They all know each other anyway. The place was too small for a spider to get lost. Old Billy would get home somehow.

So up the road we trudged, me leading the way, cute little kid following some metres behind. Every so often he would stop at the side of the road to graze and poke. The sun was making me impatient and I now knew his tricks, so I didn't stop to wait for him. "Ela! Ela! Come on! We're not stopping here. Come!" and back running after me he would come. We finally reached the copse whereupon I realised a scrambling climb was in store, if we wanted to get up to where the other goats were tethered. On the slippery, scratchy, huffy, puffy and, of course, dirty, way up, I silently marvelled at the unsung courage and toughness of women in villages everywhere, Greek or otherwise, that they could live like this every day, tending their animals, scrambling up impossible slopes so they could find suitable grazing places. I suddenly understood why I hadn't been able to find a manicurist in nearby Kalamata; they weren't needed.

Finally, Billy was face to face with 2 of his own kind. They were a mother and child team, both older than him, and perhaps disposed to act mercifully. For, after a few moments of carefully and curiously sniffing his backside, they took him into their fold. Hooray! He was accepted. I felt a marvellous sense of achievement. While the 3 were exchanging introductory pleasantries, I made a quick, slippy getaway down the other side of the hill. Looking back, I saw that Billy had finally stopped looking for me or trying to follow me. He was happily gorging himself on the thick clumps of grass while mother and child team looked on in amusement before going for seconds themselves.