So, picture this: I’m at home in my pyjamas, eating cereal straight from the box, watching a YouTube video titled *“How to Become a Millionaire Without Doing Anything (It’s Not a Scam, Trust Me).
Then my doorbell rings. Now, when you're in pyjamas and someone rings the bell, you only have two options:
1. Pretend you're dead.
2. Open the door and immediately regret it.
I chose option 2.
Standing there is my neighbour, Mrs. Patel—sweet old lady, 4’10”, wears sunglasses indoors, probably has a side hustle in espionage.
She says, “I need you to watch something for a few hours. It’s very well-behaved.
Don’t let it eat your curtains.” Before I can ask questions, she dumps a leash in my hand and leaves. Attached to the leash: a goat. A real one. Horns. Beard. Smelled like a cheese factory exploded in a barn.
The goat (who I later learned was named “Rajnikanth”) immediately charges into my house like he owns the place.
He headbutts the TV, climbs onto the couch, and starts chewing on a cushion like it insulted his mother. I tried reasoning with him.
I tried bribing him with crackers. I even tried pretending to be a bigger goat to assert dominance. Rajnikanth was unimpressed.
At one point, he stared me down while pooping on my rug. I swear I saw judgment in his eyes. Then my landlord came over to fix the sink.
He walked in, saw me standing on the kitchen table while a goat licked the microwave, nodded, and said, “This explains a lot,” before quietly backing out and never returning.
After two hours of chaos, Mrs. Patel returned. She took the leash, handed me a banana as payment, and said, “He likes you. He usually sets things on fire.
” I still don’t know what kind of life she lives, but I respect it.
And that’s the tale for today... until the next spark of wonder.
Because stories don’t just end — they rest, waiting for someone to dream them awake again. See you in the next chapter.
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