its name by stinking of sheer, unadulterated gorgeousness, this goat is highly prized by the perfume trade (the bastards) as a few drizzling squirts of this musk it has in its glands, once extracted, blows the bloody lid off a titchy bottle of Paco Rabanne or whatever. The musk goat (or deer, I can’t remember) spends its whole life sedulously trip-trapping around treacherous mountain paths and getting its fur snagged in thistles (and possibly getting cross-bowed in the shank by Calvin Klein) in its determined and lovelorn pursuit of the source of this most bewitching fragrance, when in reality
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