The Uric Acid Massacre

To tell the truth, I really don't know how to deal with this!

The Olympics National Park is a huge area in the northwest
quadrant of Washington State where I was born, and where
I became the soggy, drizzled-thinking, mossy critter that I am.

There are a few mountain goats out in the Olympics.
There are a lot more loggers and pickups than goats.
You know the routine: people love wild animals,
wild animals love to be left alone, people say, "There
is a wild goat! Let's go take a look at . . . oh, I don't know . . .
a goat. The goat says, "What in hell is this?", and then. . . .

There isn't much salt on the Olympics Peninsula.
Sometimes the goats, needing salt, go where people have been
because people hiking out in the woods on the Olympic Peninsula
need to pee, so they do, and . . . well, a little salt is a little salt.

Maybe that is why some goats are aggressive.
Maybe some goats are like some people.
Anyway, while most of the hikers said to hell with it,
one of the guys said he would scare the goat away.

The goat killed him.
They shot the goat.

It doesn't seem fair to me.

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