Buttercup was my goat. Yes, we had a goat. Maybe it's no shock to you, but among most of the people I tell, it's somewhat shocking.
I remember the day Buttercup arrived. He was in a little black cage, and he was such a cute thing! My parents gave him an old hen house packed with straw and a metal run like a little doggy. The idea was that a goat would make short work of all of the weeds on the hillside. This little guy would save my parents lots of time and energy in "weed whacking." But to me, he was a precious sweet, adorable, fluffy, and funny acting pet. It was hilarious to my four year old self to see him climb on top of his little hen house! Plus, I adored the sounds he made!
Well, Buttercup turned out to be not to my parents liking. It turned out that he could eat right through metal cable, and so instead of eating weeds, Buttercup helped himself to the garden... and the clothesline... and the clothes on our bodies! Eventually my sweet little goat turned into a big mean billy goat, and he would knock my brother over, and he was sent to live on a farm. I don't remember most of the bad things about Buttercup though; he's just a good memory for me!