Nothing about me seemed that special.
I'm just like any other Kashmiri kid.
Wandering the Great Orme with my herd,
grazing amongst the blooming orchids,
white fur and a beard as scruffy as any other.
A tuft grew out between my horns
and suddenly I was a marked goat.
Shenkin IV they named me.
Chosen to fill a vacancy I didn't know was going,
passed an interview I didn't attend.
Soldiers dressed in deciduous patterns,
white feathers atop their caps,
called out to me through the trees.
I wondered in those feathers
were their way of trying to blend in with the herd.
Still, I gave them the slip.
If they wanted to make me a fusilier
they'd have to earn my service.
I darted here and there, to a fro,
across the headland and through the thickets,
their whistles and entreaties useless.
My mother taught me not to heed mimicry.
How amusing to see allegedly trained troops
defeated by a four-footer for four weeks.
Being on the run was time-consuming,
but then a man with a dart gun caught me out.
Now I find myself a fusilier.
My sergeant's given me my own uniform
to make me part of this human herd.
Soon I'll meet something called the public
with my harness and silver headpiece on.
Maybe I'll get to march by the Orme sometime
and let my old herd know I'm still here.
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