Dear Diary,
Let me preface this entry by saying I adore Huckleberry Hollow’s Spring Social. It’s one of my favorite events of the year: the lemonade flows freely, Molly bakes enough pie to feed a small army, and someone inevitably wears a flower crown made entirely of dandelions and misguided ambition.
But this year—this year—the Spring Social was less a celebration of spring and more a test of everyone’s patience, paint durability, and the tensile strength of gazebo railings.
The culprit: Pickles the goat.
Again.
If you’re new here (and by “new,” I mean you haven’t lived through at least one of Pickles’ escapades), let me explain: Pickles belongs to the Jensen family, who claim he’s “harmless” and “just a little spirited.” In truth, Pickles is a fuzzy, four-legged agent of chaos with a taste for sheet cake and destruction.
At approximately 2:47 p.m., just after the “Whistling Through the Ages” performance concluded (don’t ask), Pickles appeared out of nowhere, galloped straight through the dessert table, leapt over a pair of folding chairs, and launched himself—with great enthusiasm—onto the freshly painted gazebo.
It was a beautiful gazebo, too. Freshly sanded, newly restored, and painted a lovely shade called “Summer Petal Whisper” (which, ironically, now includes hoof-shaped accents).
Children screamed. Adults gasped. Molly dropped a pitcher of lemonade mid-pour. I watched in slow motion as Pickles trotted along the banister like a circus performer, then snatched a floral centerpiece in his teeth and yeeted it directly at Missy Simpson’s hat.
It was glorious. And terrible. But mostly terrible.
Tiger, meanwhile, observed the entire debacle from the safety of the library window ledge with what can only be described as smug detachment. I’m fairly certain he knew this would happen. In fact, I now suspect he may have somehow orchestrated it.
Later that evening, I found a wilted dandelion crown placed suspiciously beside Tiger’s food bowl.
Coincidence? Unlikely. He’s been watching Pickles’ antics for years. I wouldn’t put it past him to lure the goat to the gazebo with a trail of apple slices and mild disdain.
We’ve already begun repairs (again). Walter Hargrove was overheard muttering something about “installing laser tripwires,” which I truly hope was metaphorical. I’ve volunteered to help repaint, though I did warn everyone that if Pickles returns a third time, I’m calling a séance to speak directly with the ghost of the gazebo’s builder.
Tiger is napping. Pickles is grounded (allegedly). The town is only mildly sticky.
Just another spring in Huckleberry Hollow.
—Lydia
