The Very Loud Goat Next Door

Milo was eating toast when the bleat hit the kitchen window. It came through the glass like a truck horn, rattled the forks in the drawer, and knocked one magnet off the fridge.

“That’s Mr. Fitch,” said Milo’s mother, not even looking up. “New goat.”

Milo ran outside. Down the street, Mr. Fitch was hauling a rope, and at the end of the rope was a goat the size of a small horse. The goat had a beard like a broom and eyes like wet marbles. It lifted its head and let out a sound that made a car alarm answer back.

“Morning, Milo!” Mr. Fitch shouted over the noise. “This is Barnaby. He’s settling in!”

“Is he?” said Milo.

Barnaby bleated again. A bird flew out of a hedge. A window slammed. Milo pressed his hands over his ears and still felt the noise in his teeth. Every dog on the block started howling, which made Barnaby bleat harder, which made the dogs howl worse. It went on like that for a full minute.

“He’s just saying hello,” said Mr. Fitch happily.

“He’s saying it very loudly,” said Milo.

By lunchtime Milo had heard Barnaby sixty times. By afternoon he had heard him a hundred. The goat stood in Mr. Fitch’s yard and bleated at clouds, at pigeons, at a bucket. Milo sat on his back step with his fingers in his ears and made a decision.

That goat had to go. Not far. Just somewhere quieter. Anywhere with a wall around it and no pigeons.

He fetched a pencil and paper. At the top he wrote, PLAN. Underneath he wrote, MAKE A BIGGER NOISE. Then he crossed it out and wrote it again, bigger, because if Barnaby could out-bleat a truck, Milo would need to think like a machine.

***

The next morning, Milo dragged the red wagon out of the shed. Into it went a bike horn, a box fan from the attic, and four of his mother’s dented pots. He did not ask about the pots.

Working in the yard, he tied the horn to the fan with string. The pots he stacked in a tower and wedged with a broom handle so they’d clatter when the fan blew. It looked like a robot that had fallen over.

“What is that?” asked his neighbor Priya, leaning over the fence.

“A noise machine,” said Milo, tightening a knot. “The loudest thing on this street.”

“Louder than Barnaby?”

“Much louder.”

Priya looked at the goat. Barnaby was chewing a shoelace and watching them with calm goat eyes. “I don’t think so,” she said.

Milo switched the fan on. It whirred. The pots wobbled and clanged, and the horn gave a thin, reedy honk, like a goose with a cold.

Then Barnaby opened his mouth.

The bleat rolled across the yard, over the fence, up the telephone pole. The pots shivered and fell flat. The horn’s honk vanished underneath it like a whisper in a storm. Milo turned the fan to its highest setting, and the machine screamed, and Barnaby simply bleated louder, and louder, and then louder still, until Milo switched everything off and stood there in the sudden quiet.

“That,” said Priya, “was definitely louder than your machine.”

Milo stared at Barnaby. Barnaby stared back and licked his own nose.

“Right,” said Milo, and sat down hard on the grass. “New plan.”

Milo’s second plan involved a sock, a spoonful of pepper, and the element of surprise. He crept into Mr. Fitch’s yard while Barnaby was asleep in a patch of sun. The sock was supposed to puff pepper near the goat’s nose and make him sneeze instead of bleat. Milo held it out at arm’s length and gave it a squeeze. A cloud of pepper drifted back into Milo’s own face. He sneezed so hard his glasses flew off. Barnaby woke up, looked at the flying glasses, and let out a bleat that rattled the garden gate. “That’s not helping,” Milo said, wiping his eyes. Priya appeared at the fence. “Your glasses are in the birdbath,” she said. “And Barnaby’s louder than ever.” The goat was now bleating at the sky, as if complaining to it. Milo retrieved his glasses and retreated.

His third plan was a mirror on a stick. Goats, he had read, hate their own reflections. He waved the mirror in front of Barnaby’s face and waited for the goat to back away in fright. Instead, Barnaby stared at the mirror, tilted his head, and then stared at the real Milo beside it. He looked from one to the other, and his mouth opened wide. A bleat came out that was so loud a flock of pigeons launched off the roof. Milo dropped the mirror. “You’re doing it on purpose,” he said. Barnaby blinked innocently and nibbled the mirror’s frame. Priya was laughing so hard she had to hold the fence. “Maybe he likes an audience,” she said. “Or maybe he just likes being loud.” Milo gathered up his failed plans and went home, defeated.

***

That evening, Milo heard a clatter on the porch. He opened the door to find Barnaby standing there, a shoelace dangling from his mouth like a trophy. “No,” said Milo. “Go home.” Barnaby walked past him into the kitchen. He sniffed the biscuit tin, then settled on the rug and looked up expectantly. “Mr. Fitch will be worried,” Milo said. The goat didn’t move. Milo tried pushing, pulling, and offering a carrot. Barnaby ate the carrot and stayed. Eventually Milo sat down on the rug beside him, too tired to argue. He picked up a book about a dog who sailed a boat. He read one page out loud, just to fill the quiet.

Barnaby’s ears swiveled forward. His chewing stopped. Milo read another page, and another. The goat leaned against Milo’s shoulder, warm and solid, and didn’t make a sound. Milo read until his voice went croaky. When he stopped, Barnaby nudged the book with his nose. “You want more?” Milo asked. Barnaby gave a tiny, soft bleat, nothing like the cannon-fire noise from before. “Okay,” said Milo, and turned the page. Outside, the street was quiet. The whole house felt like it was listening. Milo realized he wasn’t in a hurry to send Barnaby home after all. He read until the moon came up, and Barnaby fell asleep with his chin on Milo’s knee.

The next evening, Milo dragged his beanbag onto the porch and waited. Barnaby trotted up the path at exactly seven o’clock, as if he had a watch hidden in his fleece. “You’re back,” Milo said. Barnaby bleated—one polite honk—and settled beside the beanbag. Milo opened a book about a pig who wanted to be a pilot. Barnaby chewed his cud in rhythm with the sentences. When Milo paused for a breath, the goat nudged the page with his nose. “Okay, okay,” Milo said, and read on. The street stayed quiet. Mrs. Pemberton from next door leaned over her fence and whispered, “Is that goat still here?” “He’s listening,” Milo whispered back. “To a book?” She squinted. “Well, I never.” By eight o’clock, Milo had read three chapters and his throat was dry. Barnaby leaned his head on Milo’s knee and let out a long, contented sigh. Milo scratched between his horns. “You’re not so bad,” he said. “When you’re quiet.” Barnaby blinked slowly, like he agreed. The porch light flickered on, and moths danced around it. Milo read until the words blurred. Then a flashlight beam swung up the path. “Milo?” called Mr. Fitch. “Is my goat holding you hostage?” “No, sir,” Milo said. “He’s just listening.” Mr. Fitch stepped onto the porch and saw Barnaby curled at Milo’s feet like a giant, hairy cushion. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “I’ve been looking for him all day. He’s moving to my sister’s farm tomorrow. She’s got a field and a shed and about forty chickens.” Milo’s stomach dropped. “Tomorrow?” “Early,” said Mr. Fitch. “She’s got a truck coming at six.”

***

Milo stood up so fast the beanbag slid off the porch. “You can’t take him,” he said. “He’s quiet now. He just needed someone to read to him.” Mr. Fitch raised an eyebrow. “Read to him?” “Yes, sir. He likes stories about animals. And boats. And pigs.” Milo held up the book. “He hasn’t made a peep in two hours.” Mr. Fitch looked at Barnaby. Barnaby looked back and let out a soft, questioning bleat. “That’s the quietest I’ve ever heard him,” Mr. Fitch admitted. “But my sister’s expecting him. She’s got a barn and everything.” “I could read to him every night,” Milo said. “I could keep him in my yard. I’ll build him a shed. I’ll mow the lawn.” “You hate mowing the lawn,” said Mr. Fitch. “I know,” said Milo. “But I’ll do it.” Mr. Fitch scratched his chin. Then he chuckled. “You know, my sister’s got forty chickens. She won’t even notice one goat. And I’m getting too old to chase him.” He held out his hand. “You got a deal. But you keep him quiet, you hear?” Milo shook it. “I will.” He turned to Barnaby. “Did you hear that? You’re staying.” Barnaby let out a bleat that rattled the porch light. “Shh!” said Milo, laughing. “Inside voice.” The goat lowered his head and gave a tiny, throaty hum. Mr. Fitch shook his head and walked home. Milo looked at his noise machine, still sitting in the yard with its horn and pots. He dragged it onto the porch and switched on the fan. It whirred softly, and he angled it at his book. “There,” he said. “Now you’re my book light.” Barnaby leaned against him, and Milo turned the page.