Dirty Jobs – Alton Edition

Two weeks ago, I watched two men whom I respect very much debate the merits of sticking a pointed, barbed, plastic plug in a goat’s rectum.  It was the beginning of an unusual, yet classically rural day.

Ned, my goat mentor and icon of all things rural, was slaughtering two goats for an upcoming meat goat association open house.  Aiding Ned was Fred, a recent addition to our community and a man well versed in animal dissection.

I’ve never “dressed” an animal, but I know the basic theory.  So, when I overheard Fred suggesting Ned stick this green plastic thing in the goat’s butt hole, I thought I’d caught the punch line to an off-color joke.  Good thing I stifled a sophomoric giggle.  These guys were serious.

The plug enables you to cut out the rectum, pull out the bowel and tie it off before you slice open the goat.  This prevents spilling any of the bowel’s contents on the meat.  The thing works like a charm.  I just can’t imagine being tasked with marketing this invention.

“Billy Mays here.  Do you have problems with fecal matter falling out of your dead goat’s rectum?  Well, say goodbye to those crappy clean-ups.  Introducing, Rectum Check, the sure-fire way to seal ANY goat’s rectum.”

But wait, there’s more …

Jordan and I watched these two goats being dressed and eventually lent a hand.  We skinned and hacked until we had gleaming, skinless goat carcasses hanging before us.

By now, everyone’s hands were covered with blood.  I brought latex gloves, not because I’m fastidious or a priss, but because years in EMS taught me to keep any and all body fluids off my skin.  But when I realized everyone else was going bare knuckled, I didn’t want to be the wuss wearing light green pinkie protectors.

At this time, Ned pulled out the Sawzall, a powerful reciprocating saw you’d likely find at any construction site.  While Fred held the carcasses, Ned deftly sawed them into smaller portions.  Both were occasionally rewarded with flecks of flesh, bone and blood flung on to their shirts and pants.

As we watched through a soft pink mist, the climax of the event came when the horned heads were sawed off and bounced on the bloody grass.  It was like a scene in a classic, third-rate horror movie, sans the pentagram, candles and bevy of nude virgins.  Nothing speaks to a man’s inner beast more than killing, dressing and ultimately eating an animal.  OK, nude virgins would have made it a little better, but not much.

Ned kept the meat for cooking and presentation at the open house and I volunteered to dispose of the offal on our property.  Then Jordan said he wanted to take home a goat head.  Kids today.  They expect it all: computer, HD TV, cellphone, iPod, you name it.  And he still has to have a freshly-severed, still-oozing, goat head with its trachea dangling underneath like a miniature, white garden hose.  We’ve certainly spoiled the boy.

I resisted, but he insisted.  I’m weak.  I caved, so into the truck went both goat heads along with their guts.  I confess, as I drove Jordan to school I fantasized about getting into an accident where the remains in my truck were tossed all over the highway.  The arriving constable would think I’d run over a small pack of albino cub scouts.

I know.  I need therapy.

Jordan had school and football the next two days, so figuring out what to do with the goat heads fell to me.  Insect larva (e.g. maggots) do an excellent job of eating decaying flesh, but if you leave body parts on the ground, larger predators chew up and drag off the bones.  So, Ned suggested I hoist the heads into a tree.

I pretty much ran the gamut of macabre that morning, beginning with my education in goat rectum sealing and ending with me standing in the forest a quarter mile from the house, hands on hips, admiring two bloody goat heads hanging from a tree.

I left the city an ex-soccer coach and sports writer.  Now I’m lord of the flies.

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