We all do some foolish things in our youth when we don’t understand the consequences. For me, a lighthearted prank saddled me with a goat for the rest of my career, and I have to tell you — goats are a lot of fucking work.
It started late one night in Bradley Barracks on a cool autumn night just before the Army-Navy Football game. My roommate and I were rubbing each other’s backs and talking about our dreams, like we always did, when we hatched a fantastical plan to steal the Navy goat. We would be legends.
Still, I wasn’t ready for that moment, deep below Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium, when I locked eyes with Adm. Ernst J. King the goat. I didn’t expect him to seem so worldly, so wise, so game for the adventure. There were many goats in the goat dungeon that night, but I knew that Ernest was the goat for me. Ernest stood aside from the common goats, lazily eating "The Bluejacket’s Manual," and practically leaped into the rucksack I’d brought for him. Our first touch was electric.
The next few days were a haze. While the military world panicked at the loss of Ernest, we spent lazy days on Clinton Field, sharing a secret just the two of us knew. I showed him how to cut a pie properly; he showed me how to eat the pie tin.
