I was driving last Sunday and I spotted a big goat on a chain lazily munching on a wad of grass. It made me think of Elvis.

Elvis is not dead, he is still alive and well and he resides in Elk Creek, Va. He doesn't sing and gyrate, but man, can he eat. The Elvis I am speaking of is not the same one you may be thinking of. My Elvis was a goat - as in billy goat.

After Elvis, I will never have another goat. Unless, of course, I come across one that never breaks loose and doesn't smell bad.

Someone gave Elvis to me a few years ago. He was a cute little black fellow with big curly horns. He had a dis-stink-tive odor, if you know what I mean. They say the billy goats smell bad and the nanny goats do not.

Elvis was billy to the bone.

He was also an escape artist. He would always manage to Houdini himself loose and then I would get the pleasure of playing "hide and goat seek". When I finally caught up with the little guy, I would attempt to lure him in with a bucket of grain. He would follow the bucket sometimes, but when he wasn't hungry, he would lock up. That little 60-pound goat could rock back on his hooves and I couldn't budge him. I finally figured out that I needed to lift up on his horns and then he would follow me once his front feet were off the ground. And they say donkeys are stubborn.

So I went looking for some professional advice. There was a fellow down the road who had dozens of goats of various sizes. There were big goats and little goats and in-between goats. All of his goats lived in dog houses.

For some reason, they would stand on the roof of the little houses. The roofs were A-framed, so I could not see how it was a very comfortable thing. The goat guy just said the goats like to be up high. So I asked the fellow how I could make my critter more manageable.

He asked me how much I paid for it. I told him it was free. He laughed. "Is your goat getting your goat?" he joked. I pretended to laugh, but inside I knew he was right - the little horned devil was getting the best of me.

He said he usually started working with his pet animals at a young age. Have you ever heard the saying, if it sounds too good to be true, it's probably a free goat? He asked me. I assured him that I hadn't.

He offered to come over and have a talk with my goat. He even brought along one of his goats that was well behaved. You know, as a goat role model. He had told me earlier that most of his animals were something called market goats - he sold them to a slaughter house and someone paid for the meat. I told him my stomach couldn't take it if it smelled anything like it did when it was alive.

Goat meat is a common food in other countries and that some of the residents of these countries have migrated to the good ole U.S. of A, he declared. He went on to explain that the worse a goat smells the more it's worth. When he got out of the truck, he immediately told me that I had a pretty high-dollar meat goat there. Oh yeah? I said between gags.

I had Elvis staked off on a steep bank near a creek so that he could keep it mowed down and still get to the water.

Goat guy hooked his goat up on the bank beside mine and we left them alone to talk for awhile. We weren't gone more than half an hour. When we got back, they were both smoking cigars, cursing and eating beer cans.

The man left and said my goat was already too corrupted. Or was it just baaaad? Then I got to thinking about the high-dollar goat market. The goat knew what I was thinking, he could see it in my eyes.

But he was going to fight it to the bitter end. So he broke loose every day for a week. On the first three days, I hooked him back and went on about my business. On the fourth day, I hooked Elvis to a telephone pole with enough chain to get into the building, which he used for shelter. The building was too tall to climb on top of, so I parked an old car nearby for him to climb on. On the fifth day, I hooked Elvis to a 30-pound logging chain with a Master lock. Elvis burped loudly and a piece of chrome flew out of his mouth. The car was gone. On the sixth day, Elvis went into the neighbor's yard and ate her clothes. Luckily, she wasn't wearing them at the time. She called me, cursing. When I arrived at her house, she was pale and still cursing.

"You look like you've just seen Elvis," I said, chuckling at my own wit. She hit me.

I gave her $20 for her clothes and promised her if anything usable came out of the goat, I would return it to her.

She hit me again. She told me to "get my stinking goat and get out of here."

While I was a little upset, Elvis didn't seem to mind being insulted by the woman at all. He just followed me to the truck with a pair of her big polka-dotted underwear hanging out of his mouth - complete with what appeared to be a little goat smile.

I decided right then and there that I could never send such a wonderful adversary to his doom at some slaughterhouse.

So I did the only thing I could do. I went home and called up a friend and told him what a wonderful goat Elvis was.

"He smells like flowers and he is so friendly and affectionate," I told my friend. "He is truly one of the most remarkable goats in the world. He can read, count to ten and dance like nobody's business. Why, he used to be one of them Barnum and Bailey Circus goats," I continued. "I just feel bad because I won't have enough time to spend with him. I am moving to Cambodia."

My friend said he was looking for a pet and maybe the goat could clean off some brush. I smelled blood.

I went in for the kill. "Elvis is just like part of the family. And he's not all goat - Elvis is really part pig," I said. "He's of the Bush Hog goat breed. That's where they got the name for these tractor accessories.

"Elvis is one of them African pygmy goats," I explained. "They eat the same stuff as a goat, but they eat like a pig," I said. "Did you know that a pig is smarter than a dog?"

He didn't realize what an animal aficionado I was.

"Heck, I'm really just a goat-lover," I told him.

Then I heard him say the magic words: "Maybe I could keep your goat for awhile and see how he does, at least 'til you get back." When he offered to come and pick it up, I told him not to worry about that. "I'm coming that way, I'll just bring him to you tomorrow," I said, my lips suddenly connecting both my ears in an almost-insane smile.

In thinking of Elvis' feelings, I had to tell my friend that it wouldn't be nice to shift the poor little fellow from home to home.

"You just keep him," I offered with a make-believe sob. On the seventh day, I recaptured Elvis and took him to my soon-to-be-former friend's home with his telephone pole, the lady's half-eaten underwear and the 30-pound logging chain.

My friend thanked me for trusting him with Elvis' care as I walked toward my truck. I handed him two five-gallon buckets of grain. When my pal got within 50 yards of the truck, he started gagging.

"That smell? Oh, that there is nervous goat sweat," I assured him. I was a little nervous myself, wondering if he might send the stinky little fellow back home with me.

"These here African Pygmy Bush Hog goats always get to smelling like that when there nervous. It'll go away in a few days," I promised. He must have liked the story, because he produced a carrot and tried to calm his new "nervous" friend.

It was a lovely picture as I pulled out of his driveway. It was the last time I ever saw either of them.

My former-friend was gagging profusely with the carrot held out trying to calm the goat and Elvis was finally just where I always wanted him - getting smaller and smaller until he disappeared from view in my rearview mirror.

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