A few weeks ago I was on a flight, casually browsing through the in-flight magazine when I happened upon a page advertising Yoga with Goats. You read that right. That ancient ascetic discipline, touted for its amazing health benefits- only with a caprine flavor. So, there you are, completely relaxed in the downward dog position, when suddenly, little round balls of goat poop roll down your back into your freshly washed hair, goat stench firmly entrenched in your clothing and skin. Maybe the yoga goats go to a goat spa and get soaked in pot pourri. Maybe they smell like baby powder. Maybe they poop little balls of ice-cream. Maybe this will be renamed the dog and goat pose. So many unknowns.
A few years ago, my mother had some goats on her property. Now, in Kenya, goats are to Christmas what turkey is to Thanksgiving in the United States. A. Big. Deal.
My mother took great pride in her goats, ensuring they had plenty to eat and room to roam. One side of my mother’s property is bordered by a river, and she hired a local goat herder, who touted himself as a goat whisperer of sorts, to watch her prized goats. Having found this man who would keep her goats happy and fed, my mother was sure that they were in good hands. So you can imagine her shock when a few weeks later, the goat whisperer called her to inform her that some of the goats had committed suicide. Eh? Committed suicide? Correct, he confirmed. No note either. How had they chosen to do it? They had thrown themselves into the river. These goats, who had the best grass and trees a goat could ever hope for, fresh water to drink and clean air to breathe, decided to just end it? Were they too happy? Should my mother not have been as generous as she had been and let them hustle like all the other goats from the school of hard knocks? Something did not add up. That is, until my mother remembered that these suicidal goats all disappeared around holiday season, when goat meat is sold at a premium. Then it all made sense. And so went the goat whisperer’s job.
When I read the article about the Yoga goats, I thought about my mother’s goats, and what a missed opportunity that was. Assuming the goat whisperer was telling the truth, what if we had let those goats walk on our backs? Would they have been happier? Would we be more relaxed today? Smelling like goats, but not caring? Walking in public, goat stench wafting around us, but happy as clams because our little goats were wrapped around our necks like our emotional support animals? We will never know. Because Christmas came, and with it, Nyama Choma, barbecue meat was eaten by all. Joy to the World!
Speaking of emotional support animals, airlines recently banned those. Why? A woman showed up to the airport, pig in hand and not far behind her another woman with a peacock wrapped around her neck. The peacock was such a frequent flyer that it even knew to hang onto the luggage cart handle while its parent navigated the airport terminal. Google it. It’s true. What was the women’s excuse? They could not handle the emotional landmine that is flying without their emotional support animals. The pig companion literally gave credence to the phrase “when pigs fly”.
TSA, the agency charged with the task of screening passengers before they board their flights, has had the difficult task of turning away pigs, peacocks, pythons, mice and other “emotional support” animals. The TSA agents have also confiscated an astounding number of face tenderizers. Yep. An implement made with the sole purpose of pummeling your facial muscles into submission. Why, you might ask, would anyone’s face need tenderizing? Do they smile too much? Frown too much? What could possibly cause a person to have such tense facial muscles that they need to purchase and travel with a face tenderizer? If you find out, please let me know. Maybe I will check if one is available for sale on NextDoor, a place where neighbors are supposed to share information, sell items and become more aware of neighborhood goings on. What it mostly is, is a place for wannabe Sherlock Holmes’ to report their suspicions and dubious findings, both real and imagined ( I see you reporter of all new cars driving by your home)
When I last logged into my NextDoor account, I came across an animated discussion. A woman in my neighborhood had come across a field mouse, and wanted to adopt it. A hundred plus comments later, she finally decided to return the mouse to the field. Responses ranged from ‘aw how sweet’, to ‘are you insane- they carry the plague. THE plague’. The most memorable one was that of a man informing the kind-hearted mouse mother that his cat would find a permanent home for her field mouse. Mouse mother did not take kindly to that particular suggestion and decided to return the mouse from whence it came because her vetinary doctor told her-wait for it- that a field mouse belonged in a field!
Have a tender-faced day, won’t you!