It was my fault, I took pity on him you see, stood there in the teeth of a blizzard he looked miserable and was very wet. The forecast didn't predict an easing of the storm until midday tomorrow so I put a lead rope around his neck and with gentle words of encouragement began the walk through the snow, slush and ice to the nice dry goat house.
Trevor fed up with waiting to be led by a man terrified of falling in the dark onto his not very able left arm and breaking it in several places again decided there was a need for speed and attempted a gallop to the promised sanctuary of the nice hay bed.
Say attempted as he was burdened by my great bulk hanging determinedly onto the rope. What happened next is a bit of a blur but I did a passable impression of an out of control water skier behind a very ungrateful shitland pony. My salvation was a fence post which I managed to wrap my left arm around and its a testimony to modern metal manufacture that despite Trevor's best efforts the anchor held and he was forced to stop.
There then followed a battle of wills as he wanted to go to his stable, currently occupied by a lame goat, and me who wanted him to go to the goat house. He in his mentalness got goat house confused with French slaughter house and dug all four hoofs into the deepening snow as I tried my best to placate him with soothing words rather than sort him out with a sledgehammer. After dishing out several bites and whinnies of disapproval he finally relented and went inside the goat house without further incident.
I managed to find my way back to the cottage and when I finally thawed out I spent the rest of the evening plucking pheasants and planning a day trip for Trevor to a dog food factory.
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