Sunday, September 9, 2012


There once was a girl who lived in a tiny house at the very tippy top of a tall, tall mountain. The girl was an orphan, and lived alone, with the exception of three goldfish, two rabbits, a friendly spider, and her beloved pet goat, Mortimer.

Every day, the girl rode the goat down the mountain to the very belowest bottom to do two things: sell the goat's milk (for while it's name was the somewhat manly Mortimer, she was actually a girly goat), and buy a bowl of peanut butter.

This all took place in the days when you did not buy peanut butter in a jar, nor did you have the option for crunchy or smooth, nor could you grind your own in a fancy shop while drinking expensive coffee drinks, nor could you opt for almond or soy or hazelnut or any other type of butter. It was simply peanut butter, and it was sold by the bowl.

And while the girl had a lovely garden and grew all sorts of delicious vegetables and fruits, she could not for the life of her figure out the right way to grow peanuts. So she was forced to ride Mortimer down the mountain each and every day to buy peanut butter, for it was her very favorite food in the whole wide world.

Mortimer loved peanut butter, too. She would bleat and plead and and lick her lips. She would snort snuff and lower her head and dig with her front hoof. She would whinny and cry until the little girl, sighing heavily, would hold the bowl down and let the little goat nibble peanut butter with her quick, black tongue.

(Wait, wait! You say, That is completely disgusting!)

It was disgusting. But the little girl didn't mind, because she loved that little goat.

The little girl grew; so did the goat. But the little girl grew much bigger than the little goat. In fact, she grew out of a little girl and into a big girl, and the little goat positively sagged in the middle when she road him down the mountain.

Finally, one day, the goat fell over in a heap halfway down the mountain. As the girl knelt down beside her, Mortimer looked up with her big, brown eyes and bleated one, weak, note-


The girl wiped sweat from the goat's brow-

(What? Goats sweat. Go look it up, I'll wait.)

And said, Oh, dear! I shall never ride upon your back again!

She never did. She and the goat walked down the mountain side by side that day, and every day since. Every day, they share a bowl of peanut butter and use the same spoon, because they love each other.

Even if it is disgusting.

For Mary


  1. Oh, Stinky. :( She would have loved it. I love you.

  2. We started buying Planter's brand of peanut butter, creamy. It is eXcellent according to my wifey.

  3. I'm crying over a goat and peanut butter. How do you do it?

  4. There is something unbelievably sweet about this.

  5. I would never eat peanut butter licked by a goat. Because I hate peanut butter. But I would totally eat other stuff licked by a goat. If I knew and loved the goat--not just some anonymous goat, of course and not just anything licked by a goat. To be clear: I would totally eat any food product I did not have an abiding hatred of provided it the goat whose spittle was upon it was a goat known and loved by me.

    Love's like that, I think.