Page 3 of One Hundred Humbugs

As he drove, memories of better times passed through his mind. He remembered lush, green pastures where his goats had grazed, their coats gleaming in the summer sun. He thought of the local farmers’ markets where he’d sold his goat cheese, basking in the praise of customers who declared it the best they’d ever tasted.

But those days seemed like a distant dream now. The drought had changed everything, transforming the once-thriving agricultural community into a community struggling for survival. Many of Becket’s neighbors had already given up on selling their land and moving on to greener pastures—literally and figuratively.

Becket gritted his teeth, pushing away the wave of misery that threatened to overwhelm him. He wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. There had to be a solution, some way to keep his small enterprise afloat until the rains and snow returned.

As he rounded another bend, a modest farmhouse came into view. It sat back from the road. The house itself was unremarkable, a basic build with siding and a small barn. But what caught Becket’s attention was the yard.

Where most properties in the area were brown and lifeless, this yard was a riot of green. Weeds of every description had taken over, growing unchecked in the absence ofregular maintenance. Becket slowed the truck, his eyes widening as he took in the unexpected oasis.

He pulled over to the side of the road, letting the engine idle as he stared at the overgrown property. The goats in the trailer perked up, their fussing taking on a more urgent tone as they sensed the proximity of food.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Becket said. It wasn’t pretty, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of grazing land he’d been hoping for, but it was green. And where there was green, there was hope.

As he sat there, an idea began to take shape in the back of his mind. The sounds from the trailer had quieted somewhat, but he could still hear Daisy’s occasional low call. It spurred his thoughts, adding fuel to the spark of his budding idea. If he could make this work, it wouldn’t just mean survival for the herd—it could mean a safe, well-fed haven for Daisy to have her kid.

What if, instead of searching for open pastures that no longer existed, he used the goats to clear overgrown properties like this one? People might not have the time, energy, or equipment to deal with yards that had gotten out of control—especially in the winter. But his goats? They’d make short work of those weeds.

The more Becket thought about it, the more excited he became. This wasn’t just about survival anymore—this was an opportunity. He could offer his goats as a natural, eco-friendly landscaping service. In a place like this, where the drought had left everyone with little to work with, it might be exactly what folks needed.

Energized by the possibility, Becket shifted the truck back into gear and continued down the road, his mind racing with plans. He just needed a way to get the word out—maybe talk to a few locals, or better yet, findsomeone who knew the area and could spread the word for him.

A few miles later, he spotted a small strip mall nestled at the intersection of two country roads. Most of the storefronts were empty, their windows dark and uninviting. But one shop stood out, its lights on and a small “OPEN” sign hanging in the window.

Becket’s eyes flicked to the familiar logo on the sign in front of the small realty office. Silver Springs Realty. It was the same one he’d seen on the property he’d just passed—the overgrown yard that had sparked his idea. A surge of possibility coursed through him. If anyone knew how many neglected lots like that were scattered around the area, it would be a real estate agent.

He pulled into the mostly empty parking lot, the truck’s brakes squealing in protest as he came to a stop. As he climbed out of the cab, he caught his reflection in the truck’s side mirror. His face was lined with worry and fatigue, his clothes dusty from days spent more in the fields than in his house. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, trying to make himself look a bit more presentable.

“You can do this, Shepherd,” he muttered to himself. “It’s just another sales pitch. No different than hawking cheese at the market.”

But as he approached the office door, doubt began to creep in. What if they laughed him out of the place? What if this idea was as dried up and useless as the fields he’d been searching for all day?

Becket hesitated, his hand on the door handle. Behind him, he heard the goats in the trailer, a reminder of why he was here. Of why he couldn’t give up.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The office was small and cluttered, with stacks of papers covering every available surface. The walls were lined with photos of properties—houses that had seen better days, parcels of land that looked more suited to tumbleweeds than crops. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation.

Behind a desk piled high with folders sat a woman Becket guessed to be in her late fifties. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she peered at him over the top of reading glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone suggesting she hoped the answer was no.

Becket cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how out of place he must look. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “Name’s Becket Shepherd. I was hoping to talk to you about a business proposition.”

The woman—her nameplate identified her as Marge Gunderson—raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Shepherd, if you’re looking to list a property, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. Market’s deader than a doornail these days. Drought’s seen to that.”

Becket shook his head, taking a step closer to the desk. “No, ma’am, I’m not looking to sell. I’m here to offer a service. One that might help with some of those harder-to-sell properties.”

Marge leaned back in her chair, curiosity replacing the initial dismissal in her eyes. “I’m listening.”

Taking a deep breath, Becket launched into his pitch. He told her about his goats, about how effective they were at clearing overgrown land. He painted a picture of transformed properties, of happy homeowners freed from the burden of unmanageable yards.

As he spoke, he could see the skepticism in Marge’s eyes giving way to interest. When he finished, she was silent for a long moment, studying him with an intensity that made him want to fidget.

“Goats,” she said with a hint of amusement in her voice. “You’re proposing to solve our landscaping problems with goats.”

Becket nodded, standing his ground. “Yes, ma’am. I know it sounds strange, but I’m willing to prove it works. I’ll do the first job for free—any property you choose. If you’re not satisfied with the results, you don’t owe me a thing.”

Marge considered this, tapping a pen against her desk. “And what makes you think people around here would go for something like this? Folks tend to be set in their ways, you know.”

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