Martin drove his goat, Clover, to the village auction with strict instructions from his wife.
“Bring back money, not the goat,” June said.
Clover had escaped three times in a week, eaten a patch of roses, and learned to open the feed shed with her nose. Martin had repaired the gate twice. June had repaired her patience once and declared it a temporary measure.
At the auction Martin tied Clover behind the barn. The auctioneer asked about her age, her health, and whether she was easy to handle. Martin said she was healthy and declined to answer the last question until a lawyer was present.
“You must say something good,” the auctioneer insisted.
“She’s curious.”
“Excellent.”
“About other people’s property.”
The auctioneer wrote down “spirited.” Martin went for tea. While he was away, Clover slipped her rope, climbed onto an empty trailer, and ate the corner of a catalogue. By the time Martin returned, three people had gathered around to admire her confidence.
The sale began. The auctioneer called Clover “a remarkably intelligent animal with a lively interest in her surroundings.” Martin nearly corrected him, but that would have meant explaining the roses. Bidding started low. A woman who ran a petting farm raised her hand. A man from the next village joined in.
Behind the rail, Clover nudged open a latch and walked toward a basket of turnips. Martin caught her before the basket fell. The auctioneer described this as “a fine demonstration of initiative.” Martin asked whether initiative would be covered by the buyer’s insurance. A few bidders laughed, but the woman from the petting farm looked more interested than ever.
Martin felt relieved until he heard the man say he wanted Clover because his fence had a gap and he needed an animal clever enough to find it. Martin knew the man’s place bordered the main road. He raised his own hand.
The auctioneer recognized him. “Are you bidding on your own goat?”
“Just making sure she goes somewhere suitable,” Martin said.
The petting-farm owner bid again. Martin dropped his hand. Then she told a friend that her visitors liked to feed goats whole bags of sweets. Martin raised his hand a second time.
The price climbed. The man with the bad fence withdrew. The petting-farm owner called out one last bid. Martin beat it by a pound. The auctioneer struck his hammer, and the crowd applauded an unusually emotional transaction between a man and his own livestock.
On the drive home Martin prepared his explanation. He would tell June he had considered the goat’s welfare. He would mention the road, the sweets, and the valuable lesson he had learned about checking buyers. He would avoid mentioning that the auction fee still had to be paid.
June came out when she heard the truck.
“Is Clover still in there?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “But I found out she’s worth much more than we thought.”
“Did you sell her?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
He described the bidding. June listened without interrupting, which frightened him more than shouting would have. Finally she asked what he had paid to bring back the goat he had taken away for free.
Martin gave her the figure. Clover leaned over the truck rail and helped herself to the auction ribbon in his pocket.
June looked from the goat to the ribbon, then to Martin.
“At least one of you came home with a prize,” she said.
Martin tried to smile. “Which one?”
“The goat,” June said. “She won herself another owner.”