My Dad went through a goat-raising phase. He had six acres of land that he had fenced appropriately for goats, and he decided to raise them for fun & profit. We had around a dozen goats of all sizes and colors; my favorite was a blue (yes, blue) tiny little billy goat. This little guy was no larger than a medium-sized dog, so he was something of a pet.
Raising goats was something of an adventure. Yes, indeed, I have fallen off a goat! Billy goats horns make pretty good handlebars, but their bony backs have saved them from becoming beasts of burden; that bony spine will hurt you if you stay on it long. I have also been “helped” over a fence by a larger billy goat, in the course of feeding them. You can kick a billy goat right between the eyes as hard as you can, and the only result is a hurt foot. Also, goats aren’t real smart, but they will wander places you would need a ladder to get to.
Once, that favorite little blue billy goat walked up a rail which was leaning on the fence, and from that position was able to get over to the ledge that ran just under the windows around our house. Very early that morning, we were all awakened by shrieking coming from my sister’s bedroom; so of course we all ran in there to see what the commotion was. The little blue goat had come around the house on that ledge, and was looking in at my sister when she woke up and saw it. She thought it was Satan, come to get her, and I guess that was what you would call a rude awakening.
It was probably a reasonable assumption, given that the nearest neighbor was over a mile away. Anything looking in your window probably wasn’t there to do you any good. But at the time, it was pretty funny.
And, from the time of goats, to the day she died, my mother would not eat black jellybeans.