SugarCube's Insomniac Asylum

"Get off my lawn."

The sea of knee-high green grass rippled in waves. An occasional stalk of floating Dandelion bobbed its head above the fray. "Who? Me?" Mom had sent me over to Mister Higgen's to do a church service project. I pointed to my lawn mower in tow, smiled, and kept on coming.

"Last warning." He threatened, rising on knobby, old shaking legs bleached white by newly forgotten winter clothing. From the waist down he looked like the lower half of an Ostrich. The upper glared at me from over-sized eyes glaring through thick glasses. They slid up and down on his well-greased nose as he flung sweat at me from his pointing fingertips.

Mom said his grumbling was just old man independence refusing the thought of help. I leaned over to start the mower, ignoring his high pitched cry of adrenaline-charged alarm.

"Told you, young whippersnapper. Teach you to not listen."

The lawnmower stayed where it was. I found myself launched by my rear end into the air wondering by what magic old Mister Higgens had cast his evil spell on my sore bottom.
Rubbing where it hurt, I pulled myself up high enough in his grass to see what he was up to next. Old Mister Higgins was bent over in laughter, teetering back and forth while doing some kind of tap dance on his porch.

Staring me in the face eye to eye and not a foot away chewing on the sweet grass was a goat. I'll never forget that lesson. Good intentions are a dime a dozen. Doing something kind and useful takes more than wishful thinking or you may end up becoming the butt of someone elses joke while getting their goat.