Photography being what it is, and MY photography being even more so, Bubba is not represented here in all of his ginormous glory. His ass stood about seven feet tall. Here is the sign that stood just outside of Bubba’s stall.
That is one huge pot roast. And Bubba must have sensed my preference for tasty meats. He never took his eyes off of me. And he spoke to me in threatening tones. His vocalizations were not the friendly sort of moo one might hear from Daisy the dairy cow. Bubba possessed a bovine voice about two octaves lower, but infinitely more menacing, than James Earl Jones. This won’t do it justice, but I have no good idea of how to recreate Bubba’s voice in print, so here’s my best approximation:
I think goats have always been underrated. We are perpetually shown cantankerous old billy goats in cartoons, eating tin cans and headbutting people in the ass, but I’ve yet to meet a goat I didn’t like. Admittedly, having lived in Boston and environs my entire life, my experiences have been limited. The few times I have met them, though, they’ve seemed to me to be charming creatures given a bad rap.