The goat and his two humans go home to New Orleans

by: Michael Patrick Welch

This article originally appeared in The Houston Press on 11/4 and was reprinted with the author's consent. Thanks MPW.

Weeks into our Houston "evacu-cation," our New Orleans landlords call, wanting to know if we're coming back. Their phone messages (we haven't been brave enough to answer) claim that their property value has doubled, and though they won't raise our rent, if we are coming back to New Orleans, they need money for October.

This Fifth Ward Houston goat farm has been paradise (I've also made more money in one month in Houston than I would've all summer in Louisiana), but Mizzy and I don't want to lose our huge, gorgeous, cheap house in New Orleans, with its elaborate pygmy goat pen. Hoping to further avoid this hard decision, we take Chauncey for a walk through a Houston park (so much cleaner than anywhere back "home") and end up answering the same old goat questions. We've always joked about typing up an FAQ pamphlet.

Q: Oh, my God, a goat! How did you end up with a pet goat?

A: Our wonderful rented house in New Orleans had a giant yard, so Mizzy wanted a dog. But I love animals too much to want to be in control of when one can and can't poop. So we joked about getting a goat, who would live outside all the time, pooping little odorless black beans wherever and whenever he pleased. We then jokingly found the Web site of Rosedale Farms on New Orleans's West Bank, and drove out to visit the goats. When the pygmies, like fat, knee-high seals with stubby legs, all silently approached us, questioning us with many calm, kind-seeming eyes, urban goat husbandry suddenly didn't seem so esoteric. "And with a yard y'all's size," the married farmer couple promised, "y'all wouldn't even have to feed him." Then moments into our visit, a mother goat gave birth. After witnessing the miracle of life for the first time ever (and after the lady farmer said she would have to find homes for the two newborn boys quick, before her husband sold them for food), we put down a $75 payment on a baby boy goat, to be picked up one week later.

Q: Goats eat anything, right?

A: We're not sure if it's because Chauncey's so small, or so spoiled, but I've never seen him glance twice at an aluminum can. He eats only what will give him sustenance -- and also anything that is flat, thin and crinkly: leaves, paper, plastic bags. Also cigarette butts from New Orleans's dirty streets. Sometimes we give him a handfuls of sweet feed in unsuccessful attempts to try to teach him tricks, even though our vet ordered, "Don't feed him anything. Just let him eat the yard." This same vet also claimed the cigarettes were actually good for cleaning out the internal parasites goats inevitably contract from always eating off the ground. Chauncey's diet -- like ours of constant fried shrimp and afternoon beers -- has been much cleaner on this farm in Houston.

Q: Does he live indoors with you?

A: We might bring Chauncey in when he's tired enough to pass out in Mizzy's lap. But because God wired goats to never stop eating -- and because many important things are made out of paper -- Chauncey is not a very fun houseguest. He lives outside here in Houston, with a dozen chickens, two spooky sheep and a trio of female Nubian goats five times his size, who treated him as Santa's reindeer did Rudolph.

These floppy-eared Houston girls -- Lisa, Latte and Mocha -- rammed and butted and bullied tiny Chauncey. The one time he stood up for himself (literally stood up on his back hooves, to a full height of two and a half feet), lanky Latte reared up in response and towered nearly seven feet above Chauncey. Still, he remains as close to the ladies as they will allow him, since our first week seeking refuge in the kindly farmers' empty house (before they'd returned from vacation, before we'd ever met them), he escaped the pen and narrowly survived a bloody wild dog attack. Days later, the farmers (who, like so many Houstonians, have been more parental to us than my parents) returned home to find a pack of five more wild dogs sniffing around outside their house. So, though Hurricane Rita left enough leaves on the ground to keep him round as a globe, Houston hasn't been as paradisiacal for Chauncey.

Not until the farmers moved us into our own cute little house directly across the street. The house is smaller but almost nicer than our New Orleans home, with its own diminutive fenced-in yard. Unfortunately, the first memory Mizzy and I created there was an argument, when I did not approve of her "trapping" Chauncey in our new yard. I vehemently believed that, though he didn't get along with the other goats, he nonetheless felt safer around them. But Mizzy wanted him closer to her. "Despite what he wants!" I shouted for all our new neighbors to hear. We ended up crying on opposite ends of our new cute house.

It was just that neither of us had freaked out since Katrina. Not once. Our sadness has been mellow. But now our landlords are pressuring us with ultimatums, and Mizzy's been offered a temporary job in Rhode Island placing Katrina victims in artists' residencies -- they would pay her rent, plus 20-something dollars an hour (unheard of in New Orleans!), and though it's only a nine-month job, I fear I might never see her or Chauncey again.

But this storm too did pass. And soon I realized that though Chauncey does seem more grown up after finally living with other goats, he is happier in smaller confines, living the same way he always has: alone. He's happier than I've ever seen him. He might not want to go back to New Orleans.

But we must go back, to at least see our home again, our belongings and make a hard decision.

On September 30 selected New Orleanians were finally, tentatively but officially, allowed back in. The following Wednesday, the Quarter opened for business. One month after the flood, as the ripped-open Superdome appeared in the distance, we suffered a giddy dread, ready for boundless sadness, but irrepressibly excited by the prospect of seeing more destruction than we'd dreamed we might.

In the Central Business District buildings untouched by floodwaters looked blown apart by the wind damage CNN claimed New Orleans had avoided. Missing windows exposed perfectly tidy eighth-floor hotel rooms with neatly made beds. Brick structures lay as rubble.

Then across now-haunted Canal Street, the French Quarter seemed arrogant by comparison. Among the many camouflage vehicles and teenage Texans with M-16s, Bourbon Street was as crowded with tourists as on any normal summer Sunday. We huffed and grunted and disparaged these callous people, who had to be out-of-towners, because how could any New Orleanian enjoy an actual good mood within these city limits, when the only fitting emotion seemed to be, as Chauncey reiterated, "Eh, eh, eh."

New Orleans is famous for what? ........ Yes. You've got it. Our drunks. Now we're all aware that New Orleanians are scattered throughout the country. I've had the pleasure to encounter more than a few in Jacques-Imos NYC. In the past week I've run into two fellow Mount Carmel graduates of 1999 (who happened to be in the restaurant the same night and not even together). We stood around and looked at each other and laughed at the chance of it.

Besides fellow alumnae or friends of friends (you know how it is), I also am meeting those who can only be the French Quarter drunks you try to take the extra few steps in the opposite direction of because... pick one.... they smell, the might knock you over, they want money. "How do you tell a New Orleans bum from a New York bum?" one might ask. Well, my friends.... charm. New York has some crazy people; some every day bums trying to freeload and scrounge whatever you might be willing or not so willing to give. These bums, wherever they come from, I find they succumb to the cliché of being "rude New Yorkers". Ahhhh... but a New Orleans bum.......This is my tale:

I am working a particularly harrowing lunch today, by myself. The day is winding down. Only a few tables left and my relief is coming soon (God willing) when in a walks a not so bad looking man. "Table for one?" I smile. And this beer soaked voice answers, "Just a few drinks." This man is obviously on the flip side of sober. I think to myself, "hey, we've all been there." So I seat him. I serve him a frosty Bud bottle and continue with my business. Now, my fault: I sat him around the other tables, when I could have made him sit at the bar. He is sitting across from a table with this cute little girl with pig tails. He wants to play. He starts growling at her. I can tell it's playful, but no doubt he is freaking these people out so I manage to move him to the bar. Two more Buds. I'm running around trying to finish up and be done with this day. He is sleeping at the bar. Okay: time to go. I place the check on the bar and kindly nudge him awake.

"Can't sleep here, man. Gotta pay your bill."

"MMhhgggnn....harrvveee....rrriit."

"Excuse me?" (slight smile)

"Hhmmmmrrvvgg..."

"Now, you know, I don't believe that's English, sir."

"But I don't have any money."

..... I am stunned.

"But you just ordered three beers." I reply.

"Yeah, but I don't have any money."

"How could you order three beers and not have any money?"

"I don't have any money." It goes on like this for a while. I threaten to call the police.

"Aw, man, don't do that. I'll just leave and never come back."

"Well, you're already never coming back!"

Then I pull out the heavy artillery: the waitress guilt trip.
"You know, this is gonna come out of my pocket."
He smiles.
"Well, thank you."

Well, who can resist such manners? I had to kick his ass to the street, but not without a smile on my face, and all the while I was thinkin', "Damn that bum was charming.... he must be from New Orleans!"

On Wednesday, November 16th 2005, I attended the first post-K YLC (Young Leadership Council) convocation which was held at Fat Harry's on St. Charles and Napoleon. On the way to the back, Carl Huling, the owner, my former employer at West End Café, grabbed me and congratulated me on the recent Angus Lind article. I met the folks at the YLC and was on my way out, I thought talking with Carl would make for a good piece for this Newsletter. Fat Harry's has been open for a while and both times I'd been back, the place was packed. Business draw at Fat Harry's, I thought before I sat with Carl, was like any port in a storm, but when we were through, I realized that this place was more like a sweeping lighthouse beaming out light in literal darkness and positive energy in the wake of wavering optimism.

Port Reduction: When did you re-open?

Carl Huling: We opened back on October 1st with six guys able to return to work. Before the storm we had a staff of about twelve. Even with the smaller staff now we have been able to make sure that everyone gets a day off.

PR: What was business like then?

CH: Well, we were able to serve ham or turkey on a roll....we had cheese too! We had no water, so we used bottled water in the sinks to wash the dishes. We had ice shipped in. At the end of the shift, the guys would fill up with leftover ice to take home. Our real goal was to add something everyday to the menu that was consistent, that we could get. We had to work within our realm of capability. The guys didn't have to come back to work, but they wanted to. In my mind they are heroes. They have made an impact on a lot of people, because now is a time that people want to be with other people. We have this "one good thing" motto. It is that if we can accomplish one good thing everyday, we will be alright. This goes for outside of work as well. One good thing accomplished at home, as simple as having time to sweep the porch, can make all the difference. It's the same here.

PR: Is the Nola.com webcam still up?

CH: We have already got it repaired. Additionally we have wireless internet and our phone lines never went down. Essentially we became a lifeline to the outside. Dads were able to wave to their displaced children with the webcam. Family members were able to use our phones to call other family. I watched this one couple come in for a number of times and sit at the fireplace on there laptops all evening long. They told me this: "Because you have wireless internet here, we have been able to place one thousand people in homes."

PR: These are things in which you can take great pride. I heard about a Kermit Ruffins show here recently...

CH: Kermit Ruffins and his band played here Halloween night. It was such an uplifting moment...It's really hard to describe. The energy...ineffable. It is life-energy. It is so important that people wanted to come back; with the show I believe that that desire was expressed by the whole affair. People want to come back and rebuild. We need people, especially young people to come back and restore New Orleans to be a better New Orleans. In ten, twenty years, it will be a real wonder.
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Fat Harry's is able to keep a strong menu and continues to be frequented by people wanting to be around other people, people needing a break, needing a bit of home. On the weekends, they bring out the big TVs for sports games and the wrought iron tables and chairs for outside lounging. Carl and his men are full steam ahead keeping this famous New Orleans establishment more than open. They are keeping Fat Harry's a place of respite, repast, and most importantly to the New Orleanian a place to laugh with friends.