Full disclosure: I love goats. I love everything about them, from their little beards, to their cheese, to their sweaters. I love that they are affectionate and helpful, and that they come in over fifty different varieties. Were it not illegal and potentially cruel for me to keep one in my Brooklyn backyard, I would run out this very moment and obtain at least two. (Goats are heard animals, and get lonely without goat-buddies).
Like all unemployed goat enthusiasts, I’m really looking forward to catching a cheap matinee of the new film “The Men Who Stare at Goats” sometime this week. My love for Jeff Bridges is on par with my love for all things hircine, so this is a pretty big deal for me.
Unlike some other urban-dwelling goat aficionados, however, I refuse to dwindle my precious out-of-work moments just gazing at goat imagery. In addition to the goat-related film screening, the funemployed collective will be taking a fieldtrip to a livestock auction, to get up close and personal with some real live goats. This is by far our most ambitious and costly project (train fares and entrance fees may approach $20), but the educational value and emotional satisfaction are well worth the investment.
We’ll pack some picnic lunches (with extra benadryl, for me) and report back on our findings. If loving goats is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
My family had a pet goat named Heidi when I was a kid (get it?) and she thought she was a dog. She was very smart and wanted very badly to live in the house with her humans. I am Katy B's much older sister and I'm not sure she was born yet.
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