When I was young I had pet goats. One of them I raised on a bottle after his mother abandoned him; his name was Billy the Kid. Everyone who has raised goats has named one Billy the Kid at some point. It’s like a law.
Billy thought he was a dog. Except when he thought he was a person. One day my dad left his beer bottle in the garage while he went inside for something or other. When he came back out Billy was there, holding the bottle in his mouth, with his head tipped back and chugging away. He finished it off, turned his head, saw dad, dropped the bottle and scampered off.
Billy liked riding in the rowboat, too. He’d stand up in the bow (prow? whichever is the front) waggling his tail and doing his best impression of Washington crossing the Delaware, while my sister and I rowed all over the lake. He disappeared one day. We think he got stolen; he loved riding in cars and we believe someone stopped, opened their car door, and he hopped in.
Someday I’ll have goats again. They’re such characters, and so much fun to play with. Plus they have the cutest babies on the planet.