When I was a little boy, around the age of ten, a new neighbor moved in next door to us. The five families who had previously lived there had to move out because the house had been sold by the trust for a "good price."

The bank director now owned a house about three times the size of ours. He lived there alone for about eight years and had three different wives during that time. However, during that entire time, he only owned one goat, which bleated right outside my window. When the director went on vacation more often, I was allowed to feed Gusti every day. The goat, which was very stubborn and could eat potato peels at an incredible pace, survived not only three partners but—as far as I know—also the next two moves from the old neighbor.

Over five years ago, my parents decided to keep goats as well. Of course, the lead goat had to be named Gusti again. When you called Gusti, all three goats responded to that name. Although, of course, Luise and Lotte knew their names very well—or so we thought.

When we later thought together with friends about a suitable name for a leather shop whose product range is made of 90% goat leather, only one name came into question:

Gusti Leather