Over the Line by Sierra Cartwright

a baby. A kid, or whatever young goats were called. Then she recalled Master Michael telling her it was some sort of miniature.
    Closing her eyes, she exhaled. She collapsed against the side of the vehicle, trying to steady her racing heart. Embarrassed, Sydney looked around to make sure no one had witnessed her attempt at self-defence against an undersized mammal. The stilettos and man’s shirt added layers to the pile of humiliation.
    The thing cocked its head to the side and bleated again. “Nice goat,” she said, pushing herself away from the car, crisis over.
    It moved in again. “Uh…” It butted her hand then looked up at her with wide, unblinking eyes.
    Good God. She was being imprisoned by a tiny terrorist.
    She didn’t know much—strike that, she knew nothing —about four-footed animals. Since it wouldn’t have fitted her parents’ lifestyle, she’d never been allowed to have pets, not even a goldfish.
    She tried to take a step, but it surged forward again. “Look, you little creature, back off.”
    It did, but only long enough to ram her again.
    At a loss, she reached out and touched its head.
    It gave another bleat, but this sounded a bit different, a higher pitch.
    Looking around, hoping for someone to rescue her, she scratched behind its ear. She’d seen a friend do that to an obnoxious dog once. The goat turned its head, giving her better access. Then it made a ridiculous noise, like a laugh. Who knew it could do that?
    “Shouldn’t you be in a pen or something, rather than wandering around?” It shoved its head at her again, evidently because she’d stopped petting it. Sydney wondered if things could be any more bizarre.
    Not quite as intimidated, she manoeuvred until she could climb back into the vehicle. The tiny little thing tried to follow her. She was suddenly nervous again. She used one foot to gently push it down. But her shoe came loose and the thief absconded with it. “Damn it! Bring that back!”
    He—or she—dropped it. Then it laughed, picked up her shoe and high-tailed it out of there. Suddenly, Sydney remembered Master Michael telling her the beast’s name was Chewie. “Get back here!” she called. She exhaled in exasperation when it kept moving.
    Ranching, she decided, cream or no cream in her coffee, wasn’t for her.
    She hurriedly grabbed a pair of lightweight hiking pants from her bag, worked her way into them then pulled on some socks and boots.
    After tossing the remaining shoe forlornly in the bag, she went after the midget. The thing was nowhere to be found. “Damn it.”
    Trying to pretend the shoes hadn’t cost a week’s wages, she set out at a brisk pace towards the river.
    The walk helped burn off some of the frustration. Some of her friends used yoga or breathing to calm themselves. For her, being out of breath was the only thing that worked. Scaling a mountain was significantly more helpful to her than a day at the spa.
    The irritation returned when she remembered she’d left the coffee cup on top of the car.
    Rather than going back for it, she allowed the sound of water to lure her.
    As she stood at the edge, watching the river rush over rocks, she saw an eagle overhead. She watched it for long minutes as it caught thermals, soaring with hardly a flap. She could get used to it out here.
    At least that’s what she thought until she heard a familiar and unwelcome bleat. The goat emerged from between two pine trees. And it didn’t have her shoe. “You’re a pest.” She sat and Chewie lowered himself onto his knees next to her. “I was enjoying this until you showed up,” she told the thing.
    It blinked.
    “Fine. You can stay. But I want my shoe back.”
    It shook its head, but Sydney knew the timing was an odd coincidence.
    She stayed where she was for longer than she could remember, and she finally gave in and stroked its spiny back. The short fur—or was it hair?—was softer than she’d thought it would be. The black and white creature had a