one she and one he

What is it about a boy that can make a girl do such silly things? Our little Wilbur sashays around the yard now, too good for the pasture and too curious for the barn. She never took to the bottle and we finally gave up. She prefers her vittles in a dog dish, and prefers to lap up her drink out of the trough beside Pilot. I’ve seen her trying her darndest to wag her little goat tail and yesterday I watched her turn no less than three times before she lay down in the straw. It’s not so much that she believes she is a dog; it’s more that she’s doing her best to impress one.

As for Pilot, near as I can tell he hardly knows he’s got a goat on his tail from sunup to sundown. He goes about his business like usual–waits at the door for breakfast in the morning, hunts up a little rodent snack around mid-day, and barks once or twice to let us know when he’s ready for dinner. Now you just go right on and tell me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that just how boys always are when girls are making themselves silly moonin’ over them?

That’s just why you’ll never catch me making a fool of myself over some boy. Just this morning, in fact, we were leaving church and Aaron McMillan bumped right into my backside.

“Oh, sorry Tevis,” he said, but I could tell by the blush rising up his neck that he wasn’t sorry at all. I’m sure Aunt Kitty was quite pleased with me though when I used my most mature voice and politest manners to say, “No problem at all, Mr. McMillan.” His mouth crooked up on one side then; I think he liked me calling him “Mr.” I just turned my head and strode with utmost grace across the lawn to Ben’s pickup truck. Aaron McMillan with his fair hair may be one of the finest looking boys of my acquaintance, but I see no need to make myself silly over him.

Now it’s unfortunate for my sense of maturity and gracefulness that Ben pulled onto our driveway just as that wicked neighbor boy was retrieving the newspaper from the box at the bottom corner of our property. (Of course he wasn’t at church, the heathen.)

Ben cranked down his window and called out, “Hello there, Ezekiel.”

That boy just nodded his head. Who did he think he was anyway? I swear he might’ve tipped his hat if he’d been wearing one. Thinking he’s some titled lord in regency England.

I stuck my head out the window and said, “You’re supposed to say ‘Hello, Mr. Ben.’”

For that I got an elbow in the ribs from Aunt Kitty and a whispered, “Hush, Tevis,” from Ben.

That boy–Ezekiel–he looked to his feet for just a moment and when he looked back up I saw that he’d been trying to contain a grin. He did not succeed. “Hello, Mr. Ben,” he said, but his eyes were on me all the while. Then he asked, “Been missing any chicken eggs lately?” and turned back up the road.

I fairly flew out of my seat, hollering at that boy. “Why you rotten, stinkin’, no good, snot-snivelin’, lily-livered–!” Aunt Kitty smashed her palm against my mouth at that point and I saw Ben shaking his head, muttering to himself, “Strange question to ask. Guess that boy is a mite disturbed. Best keep to ourselves, I wager.”

When we pulled up to the house Pilot and Wilbur were chasing a stray cat around the yard. The cat finally took refuge in a tree and Pilot sat back on his haunches to wait, tail wagging. Wilbur wobbled on her first try, but soon enough she was sitting on her haunches beside him and when she opened her mouth I swear the sound that came out was closer to a bark than a bleat. And who am I to judge that goat for acting like a dog? It’s all I can do to keep acting like a girl when I get around that boy.