not his first rodeo, but maybe his last

The lot in front of my house is a perpetual stage of rural passion plays.

Adam and Noah encountered fewer animals than I have. Or so it seems.

Horses. Mules. Cattle. Chickens. If Old McDonald had one, so have my neighbors.

Oh, and course, there have been goats. Goats have starred in several of my essays over the past four years. Christy became so attached to a couple of them, she named them.

There have been a series of goats across the street. For a short period they act as four-legged gardeners and keep the tropical weeds under control. And then they all succumb to the same fate. The birria pot.

The latest goat is young, healthy, and quite feisty. But today's story does not start there.

My neighbor, César, had a customer who could not pay him in cash, so he gave him an old ram.

I am sorry I did not get a photograph of that old goat. He was the epitome of every negative stereotype we have ever heard about goats. Old. Smelly. And so cantankerous that he attacked every moving thing on the street.

Several times, he repeatedly butted my Escape. When he was young, he may have been able to play the role of one of the Three Billy Goats Gruff crossing the bridge. These days, he would be cast as the troll underneath. With his knotted, shaggy coat he could have just as easily played Gus the Theater Cat in Cats.

César is a wily young man. Even though the old ram was quite an efficient mower, his future prospects as the main course at a fiesta were quite limited. If you have eaten birria cooked with ancient goat, you will know what I mean.

And this may be an appropriate juncture in our narrative to take a break. I am writing as if you know what birria is. And I should not do that. I did not know what it was before I moved to this part of Mexico.

My home state of Jalisco claims birria as its own -- even though it is prepared elsewhere in Mexico with some additional states claiming it is part of their local birthright. It is the type of argument that got Jacob and Esau wrapped around a pot of lentils.

Birria is a stew. A spicy stew usually starring goat as the guest of honor. Some cooks use beef. Others chicken or mutton. But it is the spices that pull it together. Oregano. Garlic. Onion. Paprika. Cumin. Thyme. And plenty of chiles.

Each cook has her special twist on the dish. After all, it is a stew. And the outcome can vary as much as any pot of bouillabaisse in Provençal kitchens.

I have tasted some terrible versions. But I have had far more sublime bowls of Jalisco ambrosia.

And that brings us back to the young goat, who is about to make its appearance.

Seeing no prospects in the old ram, César used his innate trading skills and dumped the ram in favor of a much tastier-looking youngster. And that is the goat that currently graces the lot across the street.

It has been there for about a month. Last week, César and his nephew were re-staking the goat. Because there was a lot of tugging and pulling going on (goats are no better on a leash than some dogs), I asked César if it was time to exchange this goat for a pot of birria.

He laughed, and said yes. But the goat was there the next morning. And the next. And the next. I assumed "yes" did not mean "ahora" (now).

This morning, it appears "ahora" has arrived. The goat-mown lot is there -- as it is every morning. But there is no goat bleating. Well, there is no goat, at all. And I suspect I know exactly where it is gone.

If any of you indulge in a bowl of one of Jalisco's best culinary offerings in the next few days, you may have an opportunity to meet the tender, young goat who once graced my days.

In fact, it may just become a part of you.