The old woman burst in to the kitchen, madly swinging a goat.
"Herold!" she shouted, her voice raspy with age.
"Herold! Look what I found outside in the pit! It's a little goat!"
The old man was startled.
"Dammit Agnes, I'm an old man. You can't just burst in here swinging a goat around. I'm likely to have a stroke."
"Can I put it on your lap?" she croaked.
The old man sighed.
"Why don't you just go put it back in the pit, that's what you built it for."
A puppy burst out from under the old mans chair, yipping at the goat. The goat started making goat sounds and kicking its legs.
"Harold it's heavy," the woman said while grunting. "And I can't place it on the floor or Chester will startle him.
"Well why the hell did you bring it in here in the first place," the man questioned.
"My other goat got sick," she replied and pointed at a dead goat in the corner.
"Here."
The old woman leaned forward to place the goat on the man's lap.
The man clasped his hands together and looked up towards the dusty ceiling.
"Oh God," he cried. "Why do you torture me with this horrible old woman and goat. Please, strike me dead."
The old woman stared at the old man.
The goat struggled to free itself of her grasp.
Chester yipped.
