The Nerd gets exasperated with me at times, but in good fun. I am constantly asking him if I can have a goat. The two things I ask for the most are an old school bus (a la The Partridge Family) and a pet goat. I say I would name the goat David Cassidy.
Is that too much to ask?
Now, I don’t think that our tiny trailer with a small bit of yard would be the proper environment for a goat. In fact, I know it wouldn’t and I’m pretty sure the landlord has restrictions regarding pets. Not to mention the fact that our betta fish died after only 3 months (Although, he was lazy. Perhaps I’ll tell a story about him this month.)
I ask for a goat often, but in all truth I don’t think I’d actually want one. In fact, I think it would intimidate me, and here is why: I had a traumatic experience with a goat in kindergarten.
My class was on a lovely field trip at the time. We were in the midst of a pen in a petting zoo. Sheep, pigs, and other adorable farm animals were abounding. But the largest population was that of the goats.
I was standing next to one of these fine fellows, admiring his hooves and his horns, when the unthinkable happened.
A little back story – I was a rather anxious child. In fact, when I was older and studying psychology I decided that I had suffered from some mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (Professors were always telling us not to self-diagnose, and to remember that just because one or two symptoms from the DSM fit us, it did not a diagnosis make. But, most of them? Plus, I had some weird obsessions.)
Back to the petting zoo. That day we were all wearing giant name tags. I mean the kind that looked like a blue ribbon a quilter would win at the fair. And we had been instructed to keep our name tags on. Under penalty of death, if I remember correctly. So, I can’t tell you how terrifying it was when the goat standing next to me decided mine should be his lunch.
Now, this name tag was attached with a safety-pin. It was not going to go anywhere without taking me with it. I froze. I had no idea what to do, and the goat was having a grand ole time with his laminated feast. I was terrified that he would eat the entire thing and start on my clothes. I was worried perhaps he would bite me. But, most of all – I knew I would get in trouble for no longer having my name tag, so I freaked.
I think that my brain buried most of this memory, because I can’t tell you how this story ended. I don’t remember if a teacher intervened or if Mr. Goat finished my name tag off and went looking for dessert in someone else’s pockets. All I remember is the sheer terror in that moment when I thought I would get in trouble with my teacher.
And I still think I want a goat? What does that say about me?