A Goat Fetish

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It all began after being on Long Island for about two months.  Our school district is probably one of last holdouts in the country to have 1/2 day kindergarten.  It’s not that moms don’t want their five year-olds in school all day, but there just isn’t room for them.  We have space issues.  Better than spacey kid issues, I suppose.

My daughter, home for the day before lunch, was bouncing on the couch and spying on the neighbors through the giant picture window in our living room.  I’ve taught her well.

When she suddenly spied a goat on the run.

Flailing her arms and body in excitement, she screamed “I found a goat!  I found a goat!”

I thought she was crazy of course.  She is my offspring and I did mistake a goat for a baby cow once.

Besides, you don’t just find a goat on Long Island or so I thought.  I’ll have to consult my book of Snapple facts to determine the exact number of rogue goats found on the island last year.

Turns out my baby girl can distinguish a goat from a dog, from a cow, from a pig, from a baby horse, etc.

You get my point.

It was indeed a goat.

Thankfully FringeMan was home in his downstairs office awaiting lunch.  He came to save the day and wrestle the goat onto my neighbor’s porch before he was struck by one of seven thousand cars that speed past my house each day.

We tied her up in the backyard.  While FringeKid busied herself with feeding the goat a caesar salad fresh from my fridge, I contemplated not only the fate of the goat, but also the fate of our small family.  FringeKid fell in love with a bleating, horned creature.

I knew to call 911 in case of an emergency, my mother in case of a cold, and my nurse friend in case of a fever, but I had no idea who to call in case of an escapee goat.  I knew this wasn’t my neighbor’s goat.  My neighbor’s didn’t have goats!

So I called the police.

Don’t judge me, it was an emergency.  This goat was sure to start pooping up a storm after the caesar salad and I wanted to find her a new home before things got messy.

The officer said they had never been called for a goat before and she actually sounded excited at the prospect of handling this case.  About 15 minutes later, two (always a good idea to have backup) uniformed officers arrived at my door.  Folks, I’m not the only ignorant New Yorker who doesn’t know what to do with a goat when it shows up on your doorstep.  They had no clue!  You see the local animal rescue only takes domesticated animals and the goat, bless her heart (I learned that saying from my Southern readers), wasn’t considered domesticated.  I wasn’t considered domesticated at one time either, but we can always change.

FringeKid begged to keep the goat, but those officers were accustomed to little criminals begging for special rights and they stood their ground.  Goats are outlawed in this town.

After a few hours of goatish bonding which left poop pebbles all over my back deck, the animal rescue lady came to snatch our little critter away.

After many tearful goodbyes and kisses (I refrained), the goat was loaded into a van with promises of a barn and farm life awaiting her.  I was just about to start mopping Fringekid’s face when a car flew into my front yard and planted itself on the lawn.  At first I feared a goat snatcher, but he turned out to be a reporter for the New York Newsday.

He left a homicide to come get our goat story.  That’s the truth and nothing but the truth.  I told you we don’t find goats everyday.  FringeKid and her goat made it to the papers.  There was an online video segment of me explaining how my daughter found the goat, and local radio stations repeated the story throughout the following day.

A renegade goat catapulted my daughter into the spotlight.  She has never been the same.

The goat now resides at a petting zoo and is enjoying a simpler life.

You just never know what a day might bring forth.

My models are courtesy of the Holtsville Ecology Center.

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Tags: animal rescue, ASPCA, ecology center, farms, long island, petting zoo, reporters