Goat Days

Every year, there's a fall festival at a farm park nearby called Cox's farm. It's a family operation that's become a local mainstay, selling fresh vegetables in the summer, flowers in the spring, christmas trees in winter, and the main event, the fall festival. It's got all the standard features: hayrides, ropeswings, slides, a haunted barn (!), but it's got something else: goats.
It's hard not to love the goats. There are baby ones that wobble around on short legs, old matrons who butt their way into whatever group they want, and the old wizened billy goats who run the pen like lifers in a penitentiary. There's a stand that sells goat feed, and for a quarter a cup, you can feed the goats. There is no warning sign, or any other indicator that taking feed into their pen creates a confrontational situation that people under three feet tall will be unable to negotiate.
Moses' first contact in the pen was with a mean old goat who kicked him in the chest with his front legs to try and shake the cup of feed loose from the young man's hands. A little startled, Moses staggerred backward. The goats saw this as weakness, and advanced on him. Their ploy worked: he dropped the cup and backed away. Welcome to the jungle, little man.
Then we pick a pumpkin that resembles our own head. An odd yellow sherpa advised Moses on his selectionBut somehow, he managed to find a descent one.