Though Grandfather provided the household with as large a variety of pets as we could wish for, my own favourite was the little black goat who followed me home from the mustard fields across the riverbed.Before the monsoon rains arrived, the little Song River would be a narrow stream, and I liked wading across and then wandering through the fields and teagardens, watching the women in their bright red saris picking tea and the mean and boys moving about among the yellow mustard which stretched away to the distant foothills.I had been sitting on the bank of a small irrigation canal, gazing at a couple of herons fishing in muddy water, when I felt my elbow being nudged. Looking round, I found at my side a little goat, jet-black and soft as velvet, with pretty grey eyes. Neither her owner nor her mother was around.As she continued to nudge me, I looked in my pockets for nourishment, and finding a ginger biscuit, held it out to her. She ate it with relish, then sat down beside me and began nibbling at the grass.A little later, when I got up to leave, the goat rose too. And when I started walking homewards, she followed me unsteadily, her thin legs taking her this way and that.‘Go home!’ I said as she danced around me. But home, apparently was on the other side of the riverbed, and she followed me to its bank.It was obvious that her trembling legs would not stand up to the current, so I took her in my arms and carried her across the stream. When I set her down, hoping she would now find her way home, she remained beside me, rubbing her head against my legs.I set out for home at a brisk pace, feeling sure that I would soon leave the little goat behind, but her legs were stronger than I had supposed. She came along with a hop, skip and a jump, right up to the gate of our house.There was nothing I could do but carry her in at the gate and present her to Grandfather.‘Not another pet!’ said Grandmother, when she saw the goat on the verandah, lapping at a saucer of milk. ‘I’ve told both of you again and again that I will not tolerate another bird or animal in the house!’It was easy to understand Grandmother’s objections. The recent destructiveness of Toto, our monkey, who had torn curtains and broken dishes, had set Grandmother against having any more pets.It was Grandfather who usually brought home various animals. Had Grandmother known that I too had started bringing home livestock, she would have considered sending me back to boarding school, so Grandfather, always my ally, had to pretend he had purchased the goat as an investment.‘Goat’s milk is very good for your rheumatism,’ he told Grandmother.The prospect of milk made Grandmother more tolerant of the new pet, even though she knew it would be some time before the goat could give us any.As all our pets soon acquired names of their own, my goat was named Tinker Bell, after the fairy in the story of Peter Pan. And there was something of the fairy about Tinker. She skipped about very daintily, and her feet seemed equipped with springs when she leapt about on the lawn. I tied a little bell to her neck and always knew by its tinkling where she was likely to be.She loved an early morning walk and was in many ways a better companion than a dog: she did not wander off on her own or get into quarrels with cats, stray dogs or porcupines. The only things she chased were butterflies and she would tumble into ditches and slither down slopes in her eagerness to follow them.Goats grow fast, and unlike Peter Pan and Tinker Bell and the fairies, our Tinker had to grow up.To begin with, she developed a neat little pair of horns.Her appetite began to increase, too, mainly in the direction of the garden. The leaves and flowers of the sweetpea, the nasturtium and the geranium were her favourites. These were also Grandmother’s favourite flowers!One morning we found most of the sweetpea destroyed. Hastily Grandfather and I blamed a cow, suggesting that it had got into the garden during the night. Grandmother made no comment, but the look in her eyes suggested that she had her own ideas as to who the culprit might be.The next day the gardener, who had never been known to complain, came to Grandmother to say that he had been bending over the sweetpea bed, putting it right again, when Tinker had come up quietly and butted him from behind. He refused to work in the garden unless Tinker was tied up.‘And by the way,’ said Grandmother, after we had tied Tinker to a mango tree, ‘when are we going to have that milk we were promised?’‘Just as soon as we start breeding goats,’ said Grandfather innocently.*Of course trouble, like unseasonal rain, came when we were least expecting it.Tinker, having discovered the uses to which she could put her horns, began using them at almost every opportunity. The postman, the fruitseller and our cook, all had complaints to make. They dared not turn their backs on dear little Tinker Bell.The climax came during the visit of one of my aunts. Aunt Mabel was in the habit of bending over flowerpots and holding brief conversations with the flowers. She said it helped them to grow faster.She was bending over a pot, talking to the geranium leaves, when Tinker decided to butt her out of the way of her favourite snack.Aunt Mabel did not take kindly to being butted off the verandah. She insisted that she had been badly bruised, although she refused Grandfather’s offer of first aid. Anyway, it was the end of Tinker’s stay with us. Grandfather fastened her to a chain and ordered the cook to take her straight to the bazaar and sell her at any price to the first customer who came along.I stood at the gate and watched poor Tinker being led away. She kept looking back and bleating, probably wondering why I was not accompanying her on this particular walk. I could only wave to her and hope that her next owner would be kind and preferably a vegetarian.When the cook came back, he said that Tinker had been sold. But later, when I was alone with him in the kitchen, he told me that he had bought the goat himself, and I could come and see Tinker from time to time in her new home behind the bazaar.I did visit Tinker sometimes. And in due course I found her with a little kid. Tinker had become a good provider of milk, and the cook’s family was pleased with her. She was on good terms with everyone and only butted strangers who bowed too low when giving the customary ‘Salaam’.— Excerpted from ‘All Time Favourite Friendship Stories’ by Penguin Random House