Part I: The Heist

A Country Bar North of Saskatoon — Approximately 11:00 PM, Saturday, September 26, 2015

Later. Much later, after the memes and the press releases and the phone calls from TIME Magazine (for God’s sake) — people would argue about the date. Some accounts would say September 6th. They were wrong. Every credible source, every byline from the CBC to CTV to 650 CKOM, places what happened on the night of September 26th and into the wee small hours of September 27th, 2015. Getting the date wrong is the kind of thing that makes a true story sound like a tall tale, and brother, this one is strange enough without any help from sloppy calendaring.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s go back to the beginning. Back to the bar.

Somewhere north of Saskatoon, and if you’ve never been there on a Saturday night in late September, I envy you nothing and pity you everything. The sky out there is so big and so black it makes you feel like God is watching you specifically and is not entirely pleased with what He sees. The University of Saskatchewan Student Rodeo cabaret was in full swing at a country bar. Two-stepping. Cowboy hats worn by people who did not own cattle. The yeasty, complicated perfume of spilled beer and livestock and ambition, which is what Saskatchewan smells like when it’s having a good time.

And there were three goats.

Goliath, Sparkles, and Billy. That’s who they were — three goats belonging to Lakeland College in Vermilion, Alberta, which is the kind of detail that sounds made up but isn’t. On loan for a rodeo cabaret in Saskatchewan. They were doing what goats at cabarets do, which is mostly stand around looking like they’ve seen things (terrible things, unspeakable things) and are quietly judging everyone within a fifty-foot radius. You know what I’m talking about, if you’ve ever locked eyes with a goat. Those horizontal pupils. That slow, philosophical chewing. A goat looks at you the way a priest looks at a man who’s come to confess something genuinely awful.

Nobody saw it happen. Isn’t that always the way with the things that matter? The really bad things, the things that set the dominoes falling, happen in the margins. In the moment when everybody’s looking somewhere else. Someone approached the pen, untied a goat, and loaded him into what was almost certainly a truck — not Sparkles, not Billy. Goliath. The big one. Because if you’re going to steal a goat from a university rodeo and deposit it at a Tim Hortons as a joke, you don’t pick the small one. You pick the one with the name that sounds like it belongs in the Old Testament.

They drove south. About ten minutes, maybe a bit more, on a Saskatchewan highway that had nothing to say for itself. Toward Martensville.

Two days later, the co-founder of the U of S Rodeo Club told the press. She had the weary, no-nonsense authority of someone who has spent enough time around livestock to know when something isn’t right — and her exact words, delivered to reporters on September 29th with the kind of calm that suggests she’d had two days to be furious and had come out the other side into something worse, which is articulate, were these: “We noticed during cleanup we only had two goats, not three.”

She then presented her evidence, and it was the kind of evidence that makes you think she would have done well in law enforcement, or possibly forensic science. “Goats will chew through anything, but there was no chewed rope or collar.” No gnaw marks, no frayed edges. The rope was simply untied. She pointed out that goats are companion animals; they don’t wander off alone. Herd creatures, all of them, and a goat leaving its herd voluntarily is about as likely as a Canadian leaving a hockey game before overtime. The Tim Hortons where Goliath would surface was about a ten-minute car ride south of the corral grounds, ten minutes by car and decidedly not by hoof. A goat would need the better part of an evening to cover that distance on foot, and there is no reason on God’s green earth that one would voluntarily hike to a Tim Hortons in the dark. Even the ones in Martensville.

This was not a wandering animal. This was a kidnapping.

And the kidnapper had a plan. Sort of.

Somewhere on a Dark Saskatchewan Highway

“Okay,” said the driver, staring through the windshield at the darkness of the highway stretching south toward Martensville. “So we’ve got the goat.”

“Yep,” said his buddy.

In the back seat, Goliath was chewing on a seatbelt with the quiet, methodical intensity of a man eating sunflower seeds at a baseball game. Chew. Chew. Chew. If a goat could look contemptuous, Goliath was managing it.

“Now what?”

A long pause. The kind of pause that happens when someone realises, with the slow, dawning horror of a man who’s just walked into a glass door at a bank, that the plan was never really a plan. It was an impulse. An impulse with hooves.

“What do you mean, ‘now what?’”

“I mean now what. What’s the next part?”

“The next — this was your idea. The whole thing. ‘Let’s take the goat,’ you said. ‘It’ll be hilarious,’ you said. I assumed there was a phase two.”

“There is no phase two. Phase one was ‘get the goat.’ I got the goat. That’s it. That’s the joke.”

“That is not a joke. A joke has a punchline. You’ve got a stolen farm animal in my truck and no destination. That’s not a prank. That’s just… that’s agriculture theft, is what that is.”

The silence stretched. Goliath belched. It was a good belch — deep, resonant, the kind of belch that carries philosophical weight.

“Tim Hortons?”

And there it was. Tim Hortons. The great Canadian answer to every question that doesn’t have an answer. Where do you go when your marriage is falling apart? Tim Hortons. Where do you meet a buddy to talk about the game? Tim Hortons. Where do you deposit a kidnapped goat at midnight on a Saturday because you didn’t think the crime through? Same answer, same parking lot. It’s always Tim Hortons. In this country, all roads lead to Tim Hortons.

“Tim Hortons,” the driver agreed, because what else was there to say?

They pointed the truck toward 30 Centennial Drive North, Martensville, Saskatchewan, the only Tim Hortons in town, situated just north of Saskatoon, owned and operated by a franchise owner who was, at that moment, blissfully unaware that her establishment was about to become the most famous Tim Hortons in Canadian history, which is saying something because every Tim Hortons in Canadian history has a story.

They deposited Goliath in the parking lot. Then they drove away.

Back at the cabaret, nobody noticed. A university rodeo in full swing is not an environment that lends itself to careful livestock accounting. For nearly five hours, the missing goat went unremarked.

That was it. That was the joke.

It wasn’t very funny. But the goat was about to make it funny.

Part II: Goliath Discovers Tim Hortons

30 Centennial Drive North, Martensville — Approximately Midnight to 4:00 AM

Cosmically nothing to do. That’s the first thing to understand about a goat alone in a parking lot at midnight in Martensville, Saskatchewan. To the north, flat. To the south, flat. To the east, flat. To the west — and you see where this is going. The stars were out and they were beautiful, but goats don’t care about stars. Goats care about three things: food, other goats, and whatever is immediately in front of them. What was immediately in front of Goliath was a Tim Hortons drive-through lane, stretched out in the sodium-vapour light like a river of asphalt leading precisely nowhere.

So he wandered into the drive-through lane and took a nap.

Now, I want to say something about this, because it’s important. Taking a nap in the drive-through of a Tim Hortons at midnight on a Saturday is not, in the grand scheme of Saskatchewan Saturday nights, unusual behaviour. The only difference between Goliath and the usual clientele is that Goliath was more polite, significantly less likely to argue about his order being wrong, and not operating a motor vehicle. In many ways, he was the ideal Tim Hortons customer.

But Goliath didn’t stay in the drive-through. Oh no. After a refreshing rest on the asphalt (Saskatchewan’s answer to a Sealy Posturepedic, apparently), he got up, wandered around to the front of the building, and made the discovery that would define the rest of his evening and the next several news cycles of an entire nation.

He found the automatic doors.

You walk through them a thousand times and never think about it. Whoosh, open. Whoosh, closed. It’s nothing. Furniture. But imagine, really imagine, that you have never seen a door that opens by itself. That you are a goat, and you have spent your entire life dealing with doors that are pushed open by a farmer’s boot at best, and at worst not opened at all. And then you walk up to a wall of glass and it just… parts for you. Like the Red Sea. Like magic. Like you are a king and the building itself is bowing.

You’d walk through it again, wouldn’t you?

Of course you would. And so did Goliath. In and out. And in. And out. And in. And out. In and out and in and out, for what must have been hours, with the tireless repetition of a child who has just learned to ring a doorbell — except this child weighed about sixty kilograms, had horns, and smelled like a barn fire.

The Tim Hortons employees. Pause here a moment and actually appreciate these people, because they are the unsung heroes of this story. The overnight crew handled it. That’s what they did. They handled it. They walked Goliath outside. He came back in. They walked him outside again. He came back in again. They walked him outside a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth, and he came back in every single time, because the doors opened for him and he had no reason to believe they would ever stop.

There is a special kind of hell that involves doing the same thing over and over and knowing it won’t work, and it’s called the Tim Hortons overnight shift.

The vestibule is what saves this story from being a health code violation. The Tim Hortons had one: automatic outer doors, a little chamber, then a second set of manual inner doors you have to pull open with your hand. The airlock of Canadian fast food. Goliath could trigger the outer doors without trying, walking right into the sensor over and over like a man repeatedly swiping a debit card that’s been declined. The inner doors were another matter entirely. Those required fine motor skills, and hooves don’t provide them. So the goat was trapped. Purgatory. Close enough to smell the doughnuts, close enough to hear the coffee brewing, but forever on the wrong side of a door that would not open, no matter how many times he bumped it with his head.

Which, if we’re being honest, is what the Tim Hortons experience feels like for most of us on a Saturday night anyway.

“One of Them Stayed With Him”

The owner of the franchise (the only Tim Hortons in Martensville, which made it hers the way a lighthouse belongs to its keeper) would later recount the night’s events to CBC News with the calm, measured tone of a woman who has had approximately forty-eight hours to process the fact that a goat held her vestibule hostage:

“One of them stayed with him to make sure he didn’t get run over, and the other one called the cops and the RCMP.”

Read that sentence again. Sit with it. A Tim Hortons employee babysat a goat in a parking lot while a colleague telephoned the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. There is no chapter in the Tim Hortons employee handbook (and I have to believe there is an employee handbook, because Tim Hortons is a corporation and corporations have handbooks for everything) titled “When Livestock Discovers the Vestibule.” No training module. No laminated quick-reference card taped to the wall by the drive-through headset. And yet, without hesitation, without complaint, without so much as a “this isn’t in my job description,” two overnight employees divided responsibilities like a NORAD crew responding to an incoming threat.

One took the goat. One took the phone.

The Phone Call — Approximately 3:50 AM

I wish I had a recording of this phone call. I would pay good money for it, I would pay unreasonable money, and I’m not sorry about that.

“Warman RCMP.”

“Hi, yeah. I’m calling from the Tim Hortons in Martensville. We’ve got a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“We’ve got a goat.”

And here’s the thing about that pause — the one that followed. You know the pause I’m talking about. You’ve heard it yourself, probably, when you’ve said something to someone that is so far outside their frame of reference that their brain has to reboot, like a computer that’s been asked to divide by zero.

“Sorry, you’ve got a what?”

“A goat. Like, a full goat. In the vestibule. He keeps walking through the automatic doors and we can’t make him stop. My colleague is outside with him right now making sure he doesn’t wander into traffic.”

“Is this a prank call?”

“Sir, if I were going to prank call the Royal Canadian Mounted Police at four o’clock in the morning, I’d come up with something more creative than ‘there’s a goat in our Tim Hortons.’ I’d say there was a moose, at least. A moose has dignity. This is a goat.”

“…We’ll send someone.”

Part III: The Arrest

Approximately 4:00 AM, Sunday, September 27, 2015

The call went to the Warman RCMP detachment. Warman and Martensville are neighbouring municipalities about five kilometres apart; the Warman detachment handles both. Two officers arrived at approximately four o’clock in the morning. What they expected is anyone’s guess. You can’t really know what to expect when you’re dispatched to a Tim Hortons for a goat complaint. Maybe one of them thought it was a misunderstanding, that someone’s dog had gotten loose and the overnight crew had panicked. Maybe one of them said to the other, on the drive over, “Five bucks says there’s no goat,” and the other one said “You’re on,” because that’s what cops do — they bet on the weird calls.

What they found was a goat.

A real goat. A full-sized, honest-to-God goat standing in the vestibule of a Tim Hortons, staring at the automatic doors with the patient, focused intensity of a chess grandmaster contemplating a sacrifice on d5. The goat looked at the officers. The officers stared back. Automatic doors: open, close, open, close. Nobody said anything for a moment that probably felt longer than it was.

“So,” said the first constable, surveying the scene. “That’s a goat.”

“That is definitely a goat,” said his partner.

“In a Tim Hortons.”

“In a Tim Hortons.”

A pause. Outside, the Saskatchewan sky was doing that thing it does before dawn, turning from black to the colour of a bruise, and somewhere a bird was making a sound that might have been a meadowlark or might have been the universe laughing.

“Did they cover this at Depot?”

“They did not cover this at Depot.”

Depot. That’s the RCMP training academy in Regina, for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure. Six months of law enforcement training. Firearms. Self-defence. Criminal law. Report writing. Cultural sensitivity. Tactical driving. Not once, during any of it, does an instructor stand before a classroom of recruits and say, “All right, today we’re going to discuss what to do when a goat discovers the concept of automatic doors at a Tim Hortons in the middle of the night.”

And yet here they were.

The first constable rubbed his face with one hand — the gesture of every human being who has ever been confronted with a problem that is simultaneously urgent and absurd. “Right. So. Criminal Code. Does this fall under ‘causing a disturbance in a public place’?”

“I don’t think the goat is causing a disturbance. He’s just… he’s standing there. In the vestibule. Going in and out.”

“That’s a disturbance.”

“That’s not a disturbance. That’s entertainment. Half the town does the same thing on a Friday night.”

“Fair enough. What about trespassing?”

“Can a goat trespass? I’m asking seriously. Does a goat have the mens rea for trespassing? Is there criminal intent here? Can you prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that this goat formed the conscious intention to enter a Tim Hortons without the permission of the owner?”

“You’re overthinking this.”

“I am trying to fill out a report! What do I write under ‘suspect description’? Four legs. Horns. Smells like a barn. That describes half the people who come through this drive-through after midnight.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s not fair to the people of Martensville —”

“I didn’t say Martensville. I said this drive-through after midnight.”

“…Okay. Fair.”

The goat, as if sensing that the philosophical complexity of the situation had reached its natural peak, chose this precise moment to walk through the automatic doors one more time, pause in the middle of the vestibule, and relieve himself on the floor with the unhurried dignity of a creature that has never once, in its entire life, been embarrassed about anything.

Both constables stared.

“Okay,” said the first one. “Now he’s causing a disturbance.”

Into the Cruiser

What happened next was, technically, an arrest. I use the word loosely, because there was no reading of rights (goats having no rights under the Criminal Code of Canada, a gap in the legislation that Parliament has yet to address) and there was no handcuffing, goats having no hands, which Parliament cannot be blamed for. But Goliath was placed in the back of the RCMP cruiser, and if that’s not an arrest, it’s close enough for government work.

The Saskatchewan RCMP, in their official statement (their real, actual official statement, posted to their real, actual Facebook page) described the situation thusly:

“He was very unhappy with this so the members decided to take him home instead of to holding cells at the detachment.”

Read it again; take your time. Let it wash over you. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, an institution whose predecessor force rode onto the Western frontier in 1873 and whose officers wear red serge and are known across the world as a symbol of Canadian authority and order, issued an official public statement acknowledging that their officers considered, even for a moment, putting a goat in a jail cell. And then they decided against it. Not because it was absurd. Not because it violated any particular regulation. But because the goat seemed upset.

This is the most Canadian sentence ever committed to an official government document, and I am including the entire text of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and the back of every cereal box printed in both official languages.

The Search for the Owner — Approximately 4:30 to 5:30 AM

What do you do with a goat at five in the morning when you don’t know who it belongs to?

You go door to door. That’s what you do. You drive through the pre-dawn darkness of rural Saskatchewan with a goat in the back seat of your cruiser (one who has already demonstrated, at some length, his feelings about being in vehicles) and knock on farmhouse doors north of Martensville one at a time, like a census worker from hell.

Knock knock knock.

Imagine being the farmer. Seventy years old, farming that land for fifty of them, and you’re dreaming about whatever it is that farmers dream about. Rain, probably. It’s Saskatchewan; they always dream about rain. And someone is pounding on your door at five in the morning. You shuffle to the door in your housecoat and your slippers, the ones your wife bought you for Christmas three years ago and that are now held together by habit and nothing else, and you open it, and there are two Mounties standing on your porch with their hats on and their flashlights and the kind of expression on their faces that suggests the evening has not gone according to plan.

“Good morning, sir. Sorry to wake you. Do you own a goat?”

“What?”

“A goat, sir. Do you own one?”

“It’s five in the morning.”

“Yes sir, we’re aware of the time. We have a goat in our cruiser. He was arrested at Tim Hortons. We’re trying to reunite him with his family.”

The farmer stared at them for a long moment. Behind him, the kitchen light came on, and a woman’s voice called from somewhere deep in the house: “Who is it?”

“It’s the Mounties. They’ve arrested a goat.”

A pause. Then: “What?”

“I said the Mounties have arrested a goat.”

“What did the goat do?”

“I don’t know what the goat did, Doris, I didn’t ask what the goat did. I own chickens.”

He turned back to the constables. “I own chickens.”

“Thank you for your time, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

This scene, or something heartbreakingly close to it, was repeated at multiple farmhouses along the road north of Martensville. Nobody had lost a goat. Nobody claimed the goat. Nobody, at five o’clock in the morning on a Sunday in September, wanted anything to do with a goat, and honestly, can you blame them?

In desperation, the officers contacted Animal Control. And here is where the story achieves a kind of comedic perfection that you could not improve if you tried. Animal Control, reached at some unholy hour of the morning, informed the officers that they don’t typically handle goats.

Let that sink in. The organisation whose entire reason for existing is to control animals said, in effect, “Not that animal.”

“What do you handle?”

“Dogs. Cats. The occasional raccoon.”

“So if this goat were a dog, you’d come get him?”

“If that goat were a dog, officer, you wouldn’t be calling us at five in the morning.”

And that was the truest thing anyone said all night.

Out of options, out of farms, out of patience, the officers transported Goliath to the Western College of Veterinary Medicine at the University of Saskatchewan, where he was admitted and housed until his owners could be identified. A real institution staffed by real professionals. They accepted a goat who had been arrested at a Tim Hortons without, apparently, batting an eye.

Because this is Saskatchewan, and in Saskatchewan, you handle what comes through the door.

Even when what comes through the door has horns.

Part IV: Canada Loses Its Collective Mind

Monday, September 28, 2015

On Monday morning, someone at the Saskatchewan RCMP communications office sat down at a computer, cracked their knuckles, and wrote a Facebook post that would be shared thousands of times, picked up by news outlets on four continents, and remembered long after anyone remembered what else happened that week. The headline:

“Missing ‘Kid’ in Warman – Goat has busy night out on the town.”

Kid. A baby goat is called a kid, and the RCMP knew it, and they used it on purpose — the pun density of that single headline exceeds Health Canada’s recommended daily allowance for wordplay, and I say that as a man who has committed puns in print and felt no remorse.

The statement opened with: “Employees at the Tim Hortons in Martensville see all sorts of customers overnight. This one wasn’t kidding around.”

They also posted memes. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the same institution that guards Parliament Hill and performs the Musical Ride and is one of the most recognisable law enforcement symbols on earth, posted a meme that read: “Baaad Goat, Baaad Goat. Whatcha gonna do when they come for you.” This article takes its title directly from those words, and the RCMP can have all the credit.

This may be the high-water mark of Canadian law enforcement communications, and frankly, of Canadian civilisation in general.

And just like that, it was everywhere. CBC News Saskatoon ran it under the headline “Stubborn goat refuses to leave Martensville Tim Hortons.” Global News picked it up. CTV ran it locally and then nationally. 650 CKOM, Saskatoon’s news radio station, reported it. The Saskatoon StarPhoenix covered it. And then it jumped the border, not the Saskatchewan-Alberta border but the one that matters, the one between “local colour” and “international news.” TIME Magazine ran it. BuzzFeed ran it. UPI, the Daily Dot, Complex, Yahoo News — they all ran it. For approximately forty-eight hours, the most famous resident of Martensville, Saskatchewan (population roughly nine thousand, home to one Tim Hortons and zero goat containment protocols) was a Lakeland College goat named Goliath who had been arrested for loitering at a doughnut shop.

Tim Hortons head office, not to be left out of their own story, issued a statement reported across CBC News and Global News coverage calling the incident “a first for the doughnut chain” — which, given that Tim Hortons locations across this great nation have served as the backdrop for fistfights, marriage proposals, minor vehicular incidents, political campaign stops, and at least one documented raccoon encounter, is a genuinely impressive claim. It takes a lot to be a “first” for Tim Hortons. Goliath managed it.

Global News initially reported the goat was found in Warman and subsequently issued a correction stating the correct location was Martensville, which is the most polite factual correction in the history of Canadian journalism. Sorry, we got the town wrong. It was the other one. Still a goat, though.

Part V: The Kidnapping Revelation

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Just when the country thought the story had peaked (a goat got arrested at a Tim Hortons; where do you go from there, exactly?), the co-founder of the U of S Rodeo Club dropped the other shoe.

Goliath hadn’t wandered off. He hadn’t slipped through some gap in the pen. He’d been taken. Deliberately removed from the U of S Student Rodeo cabaret and delivered to the Tim Hortons parking lot as a prank.

The evidence was as clean as a crime scene gets in agricultural Saskatchewan: no chewed rope, no broken collar, no signs of struggle. Whoever did it untied the goat, put him in a vehicle, drove ten minutes south, and dropped him off. And then they vanished into the great Saskatchewan night, never to be identified, never to be charged, never to face any consequence more severe than the knowledge that they had caused the RCMP to write the phrase “Baaad Goat, Baaad Goat” in an official capacity.

She was not amused. Two days of media circus, two days of interview requests, two days of people treating this as a cute animal story when she knew that someone had stolen an animal from her event. She issued a warning with the kind of cold clarity that makes you sit up straight:

“Tampering with animals or using them in a joke is something they don’t want to promote.”

She noted that rodeo participants could face suspension if officials determined they were involved. And then she said something that landed like a stone dropped into still water:

“The goat is fine. It could have taken a very different turn if he would have been harmed in any way.”

And there it is. That’s the sentence that takes this story from comedy to something else — not tragedy, thank God, but the shadow of tragedy. The dark shape standing just behind the laughter, the thing you didn’t let yourself think about while you were sharing the memes and making the puns. A goat left alone in a parking lot, in a drive-through lane, near traffic, in the dark. He could have been hit by a car, killed right there in the night. Attacked by a coyote. Wandered onto the highway and caused a collision that killed someone. The prank was funny because nothing bad happened. But the space between “funny” and “awful” is about the width of a Tim Hortons drive-through lane, and someone gambled with an animal’s life to fill it.

That’s the thing about pranks, all of them — only funny in retrospect, and only when nothing goes wrong. Something always can.

All three goats (Goliath, Sparkles, and Billy) were eventually returned to Lakeland College in Vermilion, Alberta. One assumes Goliath had stories. One assumes Sparkles and Billy did not believe a word of them.

Epilogue: Justice Was Never Served (But the Coffee Was)

No criminal charges were ever filed. Whether the RCMP pursued an investigation and found insufficient evidence, or whether no formal report of the theft was ever filed, was not established in any published coverage. The perpetrator walked away without public identification; no follow-up stories ever named anyone, and the goat’s “arrest” generated no legal action whatsoever — Saskatchewan courts, while thorough, have yet to develop a framework for prosecuting ruminants.

No university administration statements were found in any coverage. The only official response from the rodeo side came from its co-founder. Whether anyone was ever privately disciplined through the rodeo organisation is a question that was never answered in any published reporting, and the rodeo world, like all tight-knit communities, keeps its secrets the way a goat keeps its dignity: fiercely, stubbornly, and against considerable evidence to the contrary.

And so the case of Goliath the Tim Hortons goat remains one of Canada’s great unsolved capers. A prank without a prankster, a crime without charges. A victim who napped in a drive-through, fell in love with an automatic door, got arrested by the Mounties, was rejected by Animal Control, and ended up at a veterinary college where, for all we know, he received better healthcare than most Canadians.

Somewhere in Vermilion, Alberta, I like to think Goliath went on to live a quiet life among his own kind, surrounded by Sparkles and Billy, eating whatever goats eat, staring at barn doors and wondering (in whatever dim, deep, horizontal-pupiled way goats wonder about things) why none of them opened by themselves.

He’d had a taste of something, not just freedom but something bigger. He’d had a night where the doors opened at his approach and the whole country knew his name, and then it was over, and he was back in a pen in Alberta, and the doors were just doors again.

But for one night, one weird and dark and hilarious and slightly dangerous night in Martensville, Saskatchewan, he was the king of the vestibule, and the whole damn country was watching.

Goliath didn’t care. He was a goat. He’d already forgotten.

But we haven’t.