This locking-of-the-horns contest lasted about a minute, back last July 30th. I was at a picnic at somebody's farm sponsored by the gang down at Louie's, had too many beers, and wandered through the gate that held up the NO TRESPASSING sign, and there I found the strange falling-down-around-itself building containing the goats. Hundreds of them! Dozens! Smelling like a mountain of year-old hay and all walking towards me with those HOOVES click-click-clacking on the tile floor of this place I had wandered into, it may have been painted red, what in God's holy name was this place? I have no idea, not to this very day. Red paint, maybe a drinking bucket or a table, and the goats. Dozens of them.