20 years ago when we still lived in
Brighton, CO, I had invited several friends to have Thanksgiving at my
house. (A tradition my insurance agent later said I could no longer
afford). Each of my guests were gracious and had asked if they could
bring anything. When Mac asked what he might contribute I suggested he
bring the goats.
"Goats?" he asked. I
explained that Friday was Goat Day. We always built a big fire outside
and spent the afternoon basting Spanish goat in sop made from Shriner's
beer. And, since the best Spanish goat came from west Texas, I figgered
he could bring it.
"But I'll be flyin' my own plane," he sputtered.
"Perfect," I said, "They'll only be in transit a short time."
Although he did his best to talk me out of it, I remained firm.
So that fateful Tuesday morning he was out on the San Angelo airport
tarmac takin' the back seat out of his twin engine Bonanza. The
ever-vigilant Drug Enforcement Agency noted his suspicious behavior and
took him in for questioning. His truthful explanation was so
preposterous that they called me in Colorado to check his story!
Upon his release he flew to Junction,
Texas and picked up four Spanish goats. He hogtied each one and put it
in a gunny sack which he taped around their neck. Sort of a goat head
bota bag. He spread newspaper and scattered straw just in case.
Four
hours later Mac was swingin' wide around the busy metropolitan Denver
air space in touch with the Stapleton International tower. The goats
were in full chorus and bleating each time he keyed the microphone.
"This is twin Bonanza..baa…baa…four zero..blat…blat..seven three…bleat… Whiskey ….braaaack…."
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