The Three-Goat Problem

“‘Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake.’ That’s the kind of sob story you want isn’t it? Pfffft.” Hic, followed by a juicy burp. “Actually, the mistake everyone made was believing in me. I’m a loser!” Bridge-Troll drew a big fat zero in the air with a corpulent, green finger. “People trusted me to do this! And I failed! What an idiot, amiright!” Hic. Bridge-Troll got off his much-too-tall bar stool and wobbly walked closer to the disinterested bartender. He snapped his fingers clumsily at her. “You think I’m a fool don’t you! The entire freaking town does! I think it, too! Admit it! You do!” The troll sighed and, with much effort, hoisted himself back on the stool. He rapped his knuckles on the weathered wooden bar top. “Give me a big ‘un.” The feline bartender slowly raised her furry head and looked at him. She blinked two emerald eyes and inserted hearing aids in her ears.

“Did you say something, Sir?”

***

Sunlight pierced the timber cottage. Bridge-Troll had one day off every week from his bridge-guarding duty, which he spent at home. He groaned and accidentally rolled out of bed, landing with a thump. Lying in pain, he saw out of the corner of his eye a newspaper clipping fallen on the floor. Through his stifling headache, he saw the headline: “Bridge-Troll Declared Prez of Committee of Action Against Caprinae”. He grimaced. Some president he was. Presently, his front door creaked as someone rapped on it, sending waves of sound that seared the troll’s skull. He groaned and gingerly got up. Opening the quaint door, he saw his friend, Pond-Troll. Bridge-Troll grinned weakly.

“Before you say anything, eat this. Instant hangover relief. I heard about your… uh… drunken escapades last night,” said Pond-Troll. Bridge-Troll complied meekly, eating the stringy green substance.

“I heard your committee dissolved,” began Pond-Troll.

“Yep. It failed, Pondy.”

“What did you do?”

“Me?! Nothing! Why would you say that, Pondy?”

Pondy counted on his stubby fingers. One, two, three, four, five, six.

“I’ve known you for six years, Bridgeo. I know you had a hand in this. Intentionally or not.”

“Ooooookay, I may have fallen asleep during one or two meetings.”

Pondy raised a brow and waited.

“Fine! I also kicked someone out for wearing goat fur. We’re supposed to boycott the goats, not give them income!”

Pondy began tapping a stumpy foot impatiently.

“Hmph. Okay, I also gave myself veto power. I’m the president after all!”

“Bridgeo, do any of these lame excuses seem like valid reasons for disbanding to you? Tell me honestly.”

“Ugh. Alright, alright! The committee members said we weren’t working hard enough. They said it’s been eight months since we’ve formed and the goats’ antics haven’t reduced at all. Heck, just yesterday they munched on someone’s petunias. Do you know how expensive it is to grow petunias in this economy?”

“Do you think they’re right? I won’t judge.”

Bridgeo sighed. “I guess. I suppose we could have actually taken legal action by now. Instead we were busy charting dates for meetings and buying cool supplies. Wait, Pondy, did you know they have crimson highlighters?”

Pondy pinched his eyebrows and sighed. “Focus, Bridgeo.”

“Fine. So, yeah. Three days ago someone at the meeting got up and walked out, saying they’re done with this ‘hillbilly’ committee. More joined them. Today? All dust.”

“Come on, Bridgeo. Let’s think of a way forward while we eat. There’s this awesome pancake place that opened recently.”

Bridgeo paused.

“What? We are going to think of a way forward, right?” asked Pondy.

“Oh, yeah. Uh, of course. Let’s go.”

The two trolls strode out into the sunlight, leaving the door banging shut behind them.

***

Knock knock. Mrs. Gruff wiped her hooves on her apron and opened the door to reveal an angry cow. It was so angry it was standing on its hind legs.

“Hilda Gruff. Your Billy goats stole my buttermilk again. What say you?”

Hilda smacked her forehead with her hoof. “Gretchen, I’m so sorry, dear. I’ll give them a good talking to, I will. I swear.”

“Same old story every day. When this goat will change, I don’t know,” Gretchen muttered as she galloped away. “You better!” she hollered.

Hilda trotted outside, searching for her kidds. As she shielded her side-set eyes with her hoof, she spotted two green shapes coming along the cobbled road. Bridgeo and Pondy. She bleated out and ran towards them.

“Bridgeo, I’d like to have a quick word with you, please,” she said breathlessly. Bridgeo raised his eyes suspiciously. He could not afford to be seen with a goat, due to his position as president, ahem, ex-president of the CAAC, but unfortunately, Hilda was too nice and sociable for him to avoid.

“Bridgeo, reform the committee, please.”

Bridgeo’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

“But… but you’re a goat! Why would you want the committee?!”

“My sons stole Gretchen’s buttermilk today. I’ve tried to discipline them but they're too headstrong for me. Perhaps legal action will teach them. Besides, I’ve got nothing to fear. I’ve done no wrong. As long as the legal action is just, I will be fine.”

Bridgeo stuttered for a minute, but eventually acquiesced.

***

Bridgeo and Pondy walked into the pancake place. “Of Pancakes and Men”, it was called. Bridgeo could feel the stares of the patrons creeping down his back like spiders. Some smiled in sympathy. Some giggled discreetly. Bridgeo pretended not to notice.

Sitting down at a cheap-looking table, the two friends went to town on stacks of pancakes. Soft as butter, weightless as clouds, dripping with syrup like leaves after a storm… Bridgeo was so happy with the pancakes he almost forgot about the weight of people’s stares. The bell above the door tinkled daintily, signalling a new patron. Bridgeo turned around lazily, curious, and then jolted awake. In walked the three Billy goats Gruff. Hopping around them were small frogs, clearly young. They sat down and ordered, their voices clearly never used to indoor volume. Bridgeo grabbed a newspaper and covered his face with it, peeking over the edge.

The goats’ and frogs’ pancakes arrived, and what happened next? Bridgeo watched as disaster zoomed in closer and closer, about to strike, when he called out.

“Wait!”

The goats and frogs paused and watched, as did all the other patrons.

“What is wrong with you, you Gruff fools? Don’t you know dairy is toxic to frogs? You could have killed them!”

The goats blinked and huddled around, discussing. They looked sheepish.

“Oops,” bleated the smallest goat. “Thanks,” said another, and they trotted out of the shop, running into the distance. Bridgeo watched until they disappeared.

Finishing their breakfast, the troll pair strolled out of the shop idly, taking their time to absorb the sunlight and watch the hodgepodge of the town scene around them. Ducks crossed the battered road behind their mother. Shops sprung up everywhere with hilarious names. Virjinia Wolf’s Quaint Bookstore, the Picture of Davy Grey (an art shop), Moby-Rick (a shop that sold sailing equipment), and so on. Sometimes Bridgeo really loved this town. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that spoilt the dainty scene and sighed. The three Musketeering goats were at it again. He watched for a minute, puzzling out what their latest game was. Ah, it was to see who could jump over the Town Hall’s walls. He released a curious sound of disgust that he could not describe himself. It was a troll thing, he supposed.

***

Bridgeo slept soundly underneath the bridge, having fallen asleep to the soothing pitter-patter sound of rain, the muffling noise of the river, and the occasional crisp sound of crickets. He rolled over contentedly. He was in a drunken slumber. Yes, he should not have drunk so, but ever since he lost his duties as president of the CAAC, he could not help it. Then, he heard the clippety-clop sound of hooves. He snorted awake and blearily blinked to see blurry shapes approaching his precious bridge. He had a headache again. He reached under the bridge and took a large swig of his drink to ease it away. He called out.

“Who’s there?! Who’s clip-clopping over my bridge?”

“Heya Bridgeo. It’s me, Wilhelm Gruff.” Drat. It was the smallest Billy goat Gruff. Bridgeo grumbled internally.

“What are you doing here, kidd?”

“We’re charting undis-hic-covered lands!” The troll wondered lazily about that hic.

“I’m sorry, kidd, I can’t let you pass. You’re too young for this. Who knows what trouble you’ll get up to over there.”

Wilhelm giggled as well as a goat could giggle. “You’ll do… what? Whine a little? You can’t stop us!”

Now Bridgeo was mad. “I’ll… uh… I’ll eat you!”

Wilhelm snorted. “Nah. We both know I’m too small to make for a good meal.”

Bridgeo was exasperated now. “You know what? Just go! But don’t blame me if you go over there and die or something.” Maybe the drink was affecting his brain, he half-thought. Oh well, he couldn’t care less at the moment. Then, he watched blearily as the second goat approached. Once again, he tried to dissuade him. Once again, the only threat he could think of was ingesting the goat.

Otto, the middle goat, snorted. “I’m just disgusting carbs. I probably taste—hic—bad. You want to watch your weight don’t you, Bridgeo? I’ll just widen your waistline.” Bridgeo was offended by the assumption that he was watching himself.

“Ugh, who cares? Shoo!” He waved his fists and herded Otto towards the bridge. Finally, Bruno, the third Billy goat, approached. Bridgeo inhaled sharply as he noticed the dilation of Bruno’s pupils, and his jerky, spasmodic movements. The troll was fairly sure the other two goats displayed this behaviour, too, but he barely noticed in his drunkenness. Dread began pooling in his stomach.

“Are you drunk?” asked Bridgeo.

Bruno bleated a no. “We discovered this awesome patch of goatnip and went to town.”

Bridgeo wanted to smack his forehead until it went purple. He let high goats into the forests on the other side, forests that contained who-knows-what. Shakily, he looked into Bruno’s eyes.

“I’ve made a mistake with your brothers, but I will fix it with you. I shall not let you pass. I cannot let you pass in this state. Come back once the goatnip’s worn off.”

“Come on Bridgeo, don’t be a wet blanket. We’ll give you credit if we find something cool on the other side!”

“Who cares about credit! You’re not mentally or physically ready for this!”

“Bridgeo, you have exactly a minute to rethink. You have no idea what these hooves can do.”

“Nope. I’m not letting you through. And I’m finding your siblings and bringing them back.”

“Very well.”

Pandemonium erupted. Hooves flew that way, stumpy green fists flew this way. Lots of yelling ensued. The goat and the troll fought and fought until they became a chaotic, blurry ball of movement. The bridge creaked noisily and worryingly.

“Why can’t we just discuss like diplomatic animals!” yelled Bridgeo, amidst the punches. He got no response, but a punch to his shoulder instead. Bridgeo fought back valiantly. Or that’s what he told himself in the days afterwards.

Then, Bruno kicked at Bridgeo’s chest, sending him flying over the bridge and into the rushing river below. Yells were heard as Bridgeo floated away. Triumphantly, Bruno walked the bridge. That is, until the bridge broke, bringing the goat down with it. The goat, however, must have fared better than poor Bridgeo, owing to his lithe body and agility and his balanced, four-legged stance. The troll? Time would tell…

***

Bridgeo woke up tiredly, three days later, blinking his exhausted eyes to see a wooden roof. Not his own, though. He looked around in shock. He was at the hospital. In a flash, he remembered the drunken/high fight between the goats and him. He groaned. On the bedside table was a newspaper. “Bridge-Troll Takes Matters Into Own Hands: Fight between Troll and Goat”, the paper proclaimed. Ugh. He tried to sit up, only to whimper in pain. His chest felt like a horse was sitting on it. A large, canine nurse, a Basset Hound, walked in on all fours and began fiddling with the plaster on his forehead. Presently, an equine doctor arrived. He was so beautiful Bridgeo almost turned gay. He trotted over to Bridgeo.

“How ya feeling Bridgeo?”

“Te-t-terrible,” the troll wheezed.

“Your chest broke into splinters. Not very fun, that. Nay. Or shall I say, neigh!” The doctor guffawed. Bridgeo wanted to slap his forehead but his arm hurt too much. Actually, he wanted to slap the doctor’s forehead.

“Anyneigh, we’ll up your pain meds a bit. If there are any problems, please call for the nurse or for me.”

***

And so the days went by. Half of them Bridgeo couldn't even describe, for he spent them in a drugged haze he was much thankful for. He did enjoy eavesdropping on other patients’ maladies, though. The duck had a stone stuck in her butt. The calf had swallowed a frog. Poor frog. The sheep had accidentally chopped her tail off. Ouch. Bridgeo experienced much schadenfreude in those weeks. It made him feel better about his own pains.

Then, one day, before he even knew it, it was time to be discharged. Bridgeo couldn’t wait to be back home. Also, what was with this horrid hospital food? Bleugh. Bridgeo’s brain shuddered in his skull.

He walked to the desk to work out the financial logistics of his sorry stay at the hospital, and they gave him a bill. Crisp and warm. Bridgeo nearly fainted upon seeing the number on the bill. 1 million chips?

“Surely this is a printing error?” he asked tentatively.

“No, sir.”

Bridgeo whimpered. His treatment cost 1 million chips! His heartbeat quickened as his dread increased and his eyes grew hot, signalling tears. Bridgeo was a simpleton. How could he possibly gather all that money?

He walked out of the building and went straight to Pondy’s house, whereupon he narrated his woes to his friend. Pondy thought for a minute, and then looked straight into Bridgeo’s green eyes.

“I have an idea. Sue the goats.”

***

Bridgeo sat in the soft chair at the head of the conference table, in the headquarters of the CAAC. He waited. He fidgeted with his fingers. He drew stars on his palm with the crimson (!!) highlighter. For the last two weeks, he had researched extensively upon various legal cases against the goats. He read about the troubles the town’s animals faced. He visited each and every person with a story about the goats and invited them to the first meeting in a long while of the CAAC. He watched now as people began filling in the seats. More stood behind them when the seats were filled.

Bridgeo cleared his throat and spoke in his gravelly voice. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope you know why we’re here. If not, it’s because the goats have broken the final straw. They have injured me grievously and damaged my bridge, incurring costs of more than 1 million chips.” Gasps. The troll continued. “I have had enough, as I’m sure we all have. I know the CAAC has been unreliable in the past, but you have my word that this time the CAAC will bring justice to us all, for it is time the town lived in peace without constantly dancing to the goats’ tune! We must stand up for ourselves and prove our strength! We must show the goats what’s what! Are you with me?!” Slowly, ayes filled the room. Sure, there were some nays as well, like from Baaarbra Kidd, a goat (heavens knew what she was doing here. Spying?). But it was safe to say that 89.92301% of the people were with Bridgeo.

“Excellent.” Bridgeo eyed the room slowly.

“What action do you propose?” said Gretchen the cow, raising her hoof politely. Her horns grazed the roof uncomfortably.

“We, my friends, are going to sue the goats.”

***

“Sunnyhaven Town V. Gruff Family—Case No. 2026-SC-0901,” called out a bear in a suit. He looked at the judge, a lion, expectantly. The judge sighed.

“This again?”