Is it me or is the paranormal community strangely silent these days on the topic of goat teleportation?

Sure, they’ll go on about Bigfoot and ghosts all day long. Don’t even get them started on the Loch Ness Monster or UFOs – you’ll never hear the end of it. But just mention a teleporting goat and they all stare at you like you just stepped off the mothership from Neptune (rather than Pluto where the aliens actually live).

Our goat, Elvis, teleports on a regular basis. One moment he is in the pasture with the other goats, the next moment he is in our backyard eating his way through my wife’s flower beds.

It should be noted that Elvis is the founding member and President of our goat family’s Flower Bed Eradication Team or FBET. The FBET is a collection of dedicated, selfless goats who share the common goal of ridding the planet of unsightly flower beds everywhere. For now, they limit their travels to our back yard, but I have no doubt world-conquest is on the agenda.

Try as we may, we can’t find where Elvis and the others hide the teleportation device. All we know is they are escaping from the pasture to our backyard with some frequency despite the fact there is a six foot chain length fence between the pasture and our back yard. My wife and I routinely inspect the fence and the fence gate looking for ways a goat could slip under, over or through it, but we can’t find a thing. We have to face reality. As Sherlock Holmes says, “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be a teleporting goat.” (or something to that affect).

We also know that, once a goat teleports past the fence into the backyard, there is no way to teleport back. It is a one-way trip, which causes problems for the teleportee. Once the excitement of wandering around the back yard and loading your belly up on all the flowers, shrubs, bushes, berry vines and anything other expensive-to-replace edible has worn off, it suddenly occurs to the teleportee that he is no longer in the same pasture with the other goats. You would think the teleportee would pick up on this right off the bat, but you must bear in mind that, if brain power was measured in electric watts, your average teleportee could not power a gnat’s flashlight.

When the teleportee realizes he is separated from the other goats he becomes massively distressed. The teleportee starts bawling at a decibel that would vibrate the rafters of the goat barn if the teleportee was in the goat barn – only he’s not in the goat barn, because he has somehow become trapped inside a fence in the backyard.

The other goats respond to his plaintive calls by ambling up to the chain link fence and baaing encouragement to the teleportee. They soon get bored with the whole thing, though, and either wander back to the pasture to eat a bite or go find a sunny spot by the pond to take a nap. The teleportee calls and calls to them, but it does no good. He is stuck and alone and beyond salvation.

Of course, it is my job or the job of my wife to rescue the teleportee. It is often a two-man job: one to shoo the teleportee back into the pasture and one to prevent the other members of the FBET from slipping into the backyard when we open the gate.

I continue to search for the teleportation device the goats have hidden somewhere in the pasture. I’ve checked the goat house. I’ve checked the woods around the pond. I swept through the tall grass of the pasture. Nothing – absolutely nothing.

I was hoping the paranormal community would lend me some assistance, but, apparently, unless Bigfoot swings by in a UFO and starts doing belly flops in our pond, I will not hear from them. I am not the least bitter about it. Just don’t blame me when their flower beds are eradicated.