Overheard at the Bell, a Thursday, the regulars three deep at the bar and the talk, as it increasingly is, about the animals.
"You'll have heard Dave's goat got into the churchyard again."
"He did the east section. Vicar's delighted. Saved the PCC a fortune."
"My niece follows it all on her phone. Knows more about that bull in Herefordshire than she does about her own family."
"There's a calf now, in Wales. A bison. First in six thousand years, they reckon."
"Get away."
"It's true. Ginger thing. She showed me. I'll be honest with you, I had a look at it for longer than I'd admit to."
The landlord, drawing a pint, not looking up: "We've all had a look. Don't pretend you haven't, Trevor."
A silence, of the comfortable kind.
"Funny, isn't it. Half the telly telling us the farming's killing the planet, and then you see the goat clearing the churchyard and the old boy's bull with his wildflowers, and you think, well, that doesn't look like it's killing anything."
"It's not killing anything. It's the only thing round here that's doing any good."
"To the goat, then."
"To the goat."
And they drank to a goat in Devon that none of them have met, in a pub in a different county, because the thing about these animals is that they have stopped being somebody's livestock and started being something a village holds in common, a shared good, a piece of news that is, for once, not bad.
The landlord rang the bell for last orders.
Nobody mentioned the goat had a name. They all knew it. You do not need to say Keith's name at the Bell. Everyone has already had a look.