Get My Goat

I love goats. Wait… what I mean is that I find them amusing and aesthetically pleasing, not that I literally love them. But yes, I am a goat lover. In my experience goats are sweet natured animals that are brimming with personality├é┬á —so when I unfolded the NY Times and saw this headline, I perked right up:

How I Learned to Love Goats

Above it was a big picture of a goat looking into the camera. Ha! Look at the goat. And above that was the name of the section: Dining.Whoa! That headline didn’t say Goats, it said Goat —and the story was all about appreciating the flavor of goats not their adorable behavior.

I was dumbfounded. How could someone kill and eat one of these lovely animals? That would be like eating a dog. But according to the article, more people worldwide eat goat than any other meat. And I must admit, as a dedicated carnivore some of the recipes do look intriguing. But no, I’m not going there.

There’s no explanation for why goats hold sway over me. Cows, sheep, chickens, pigs? No problem. Goats? Never.

I dream sometimes of a home with a little land where there are no neighbors breathing down my neck. It would be wonderful to sit outside in the morning and drink my coffee and greet the day with the goats.

(You can read the article here. The online version includes the word Meat in the headline.)

Hobo Night

Home late from work one night, I was met at the door by two hungry boys. Instead of just running out to Wendy’s or ordering a pizza, I announced that it was hobo night. I started pulling cans out of the cabinet and putting them in a paper bag. What are you making they wanted to know. Nothing. Hobos don’t make dinner, they eat whatever they can find —or steal. Zack asks, “What did we steal?” We stole a bag of canned goods, I explained. From the food pantry. That cheered them up. We went out back and sat on the deck with our bag of stolen food pantry loot, a pocket knife, and three spoons.
I told hobo stories about jumping freight cars and being chased through rail yards by the bulls. We picked some hobo names: Rhode Island Rob, Screwdriver, and Patchy. We dug into our beans and SpagettiOs. Alex ate half a can of sauerkraut. Desert was a big can of peaches. The moon was out and it was getting dark and it was good to be a hobo.