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Daniel Sullivan, a 19th century Irishman, devised a humane method
of taming wild, vicious, and traumatized horses. The horse is to be treated with
respect, gentleness, and firmness, but never violence.
The subject was amplified in Nicolas Evans’ 1995 novel, Horse Whisperer.
In 1998 the book was made into a Robert Redford movie, in which Sullivan’s
techniques were used. Much has now been written about this system of horse
training.
However, until now, nothing has been written about gentling a goat. I write
with some authority, in that, I may be the only person in the world – or even
in Bill Arp – to have known and observed a goat whisperer at work.
In 1950 we had neighbors, briefly, with a boy my age. He was lean as a
greyhound and tough as a pine knot. He was called Monk Eye. He had been dazzled
by the trained horses at the circus, and had ambitions to train one himself.
They couldn’t afford a horse; his daddy was too sick to keep a job. He
suffered from an ailment caused by over exposure – to a pint bottle.
One Saturday Monk Eye’s daddy went careening down Big A road in his ratty
old truck. He said he was going to get some medicine for his headache.
Hours later, he slid the rattletrap to a stop next to the woodpile, where
Monk Eye and I were playing king of the mountain. In the back of the
truck he had a big, bad, belligerent billy goat.
The old man got out and started blubbering, as only one afflicted with over
exposure can. He squalled, "Monk Eye I know you been wantin’ a hoss, but
I been bad sick and ain’t been able to buy you one, but I done taken the money
I been saving for medicine and bought you this heah goat." The truth was he
had won the goat in a poker game.
Monk Eye named the goat Gulliver. The next afternoon, I went to check on my
noxious neighbor. He said, "I already got him so tame I don’t have to tie
him. Now, watch this I’m gonna’ learn him to kneel like them circus
horses."
He got on his knees in front of Gulliver, tapped him on the knee with a stick
and said with authority, "kneel boy, kneel." The goat arched his neck,
reared up on his hind legs, lowered his head, and assaulted Monk Eye. He butted
him in the head slamming him onto his back. Dazed, he clambered to his hands and
knees just as the goat executed a sneaky rear attack, skidding him onto his
face. He attempted to get up again; he made it to his knees when the hostile
goat walloped him in the belly, knocking the breath out of him. Gulliver gored
the pitiful, pile of pulverized boy, several more times, bleated, and stalked
off. School was over.
Blood oozed from Monk Eye’s flattop; an array of angry red blotches
promised a kaleidoscope of color when the bruises ripened.
From my perch atop the truck, I recommended that he try again. He wheezed in
a breath, his chin trembled and he whispered, "I ain’t never gonna’ try
to learn’ him nothin’ else, cause he ain’t got no sense."
Had Gulliver only known Mr. Sullivan’s methods, he might have been more
respectful, gentle, and less violent in training Monk Eye.
Copyright 2007 Neal Beard
 I'm a
retired pastor, living in Douglasville, Georgia. I write a column for
a local monthly magazine. The magazine is The Chapel Hill News and Views. It has
a circulation of 40,000. The column is called Local Lore. My column is
history/humor about Bill Arp, the rural northwest Georgia community where I grew
up in the 40s and 50s.
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