Perhaps I was wearing my favorite denim circle skirt and brown sweater that day as I went out to the goat pens to meet a buyer interested in our Boer buck, Chauvelin.
Perhaps, on being asked "Does he lead well?", I confidently and innocently replied; "Oh, yes, he was raised out in the pasture on a lead rope with my little sisters - he's very well behaved."
Perhaps I was then unceremoniously plunged into an unprecedented, tremendous, terrifying, half hour long war, attempting to load said well-behaved buck into the buyer's pickup.
Perhaps, just perhaps, I named said well-behaved buck Citizen Chauvelin for a reason, after all. Other than the fact that I was reading El Dorado around the time I named him. Impair de poissons. Le Terrorist. ;D
Perhaps you have never experienced the physical and mental anguish of wrestling with an animal notorious for it's repugnant aroma, emanating fruity wafts of repulsive barnyard bouquet, and liberally splashed with that nameless, thick, odorous muck that accumulates after several weeks of rain in a goat pen.
Perhaps, oh, perhaps, that vile caprine creature was not the only thing liberally splashed with deplorable muck by the time I tackled, desperately sized, and bodily cast him up into the bed of the truck.
Perhaps I was never so glad in all my life to see someone leave our property as I was to see that whimsical, cruel, amused buyer go down the drive with that buck safely fastened to a sturdy rope in the bed, their cash safely ensconced in my now besmeared and besmelled skirt pocket.
Perhaps I astonished my poor mother by charging through the open front door, thrusting the paper bills into her hand, and crying UNCLEAN!! UNCLEAN!!! whilist racing for the shower.
Perhaps copious amounts of soap are the epitome of luxury, lavender is akin to a miracle, and I will never again give my word of honor about a goat.
Perhaps all of these things are true.