Page 52 of Salty Pickle

“But you have some?” That sounds promising. Maybe there’s a rooftop garden like I’ve seen in movies.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll come back for your bags once we’ve made it up.” He closes the door softly, like we’re trying not to wake the neighbors.

I do the same with mine. “Should we whisper?”

“No. Of course not.”

A car approaches from below, and Court jumps into action. He grabs the leash from me and drags Matilda to the front of the car.

She doesn’t want to go and stiffens her legs.

Oh, no.

I turn and spread my skirt so the driver can’t see her. The man behind the wheel passes by without a glance our way. He takes the ramp up to the roof.

When I lower my skirt, I realize I’ve stepped in the goat poop.

“Oh, dear.” I reach down and remove the shoes. I’m barefoot again.

“Just leave them there,” Court hisses. “I’ll take care of it when I come back down.”

“But they’re my new ones!”

“I’ll take care of it!” His usually perfect hair falls in his eyes as he pulls on Matilda.

She won’t budge.

“How to you get her to move?”

I set my soiled shoes by the front tire. “You catch more flies with honey.”

“What are you talking about?”

I circle Matilda so I’m near her face. “You have to be nice, not mean.” I croon in a sing-song. “Let’s go, sweet pea. Mama wants to go inside.”

The goat stares at Court, but I manage to rub her cheeks until she relaxes. “Let’s go, Matilda.”

She takes a step forward.

“Finally,” Court says, yanking on the lead.

Matilda digs in again.

“I told you this wouldn’t work,” I tell Court.

“I’ll pick her up. How much can she weigh?”

“I wouldn’t—” But it’s too late. Court has leaned down and shoved his arms under Matilda’s belly.

Now, full grown Nigerian Dwarves tend to weigh around seventy-five pounds. Matilda is a little under that, around sixty-five last time I could get her on a scale.

But that is sixty-five pounds of pure ornery.

The minute her hooves are off the ground, she’s bleating and squirming and kicking.

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