On my actual birthday, my mom asked what I wanted to do. . .go to town and go shopping, maybe? Maybe. . . But what I really wanted to do was go see the neighbour's goats. Mom had mentioned this neighbour and her menagerie countless times, knowing the odd affinity I have for all creatures great and small (and smelly). And aside from having goats, she also sounded like a pretty cool lady anyway, so I was excited to meet her. So we put on our grubby clothes and shoes--we'd be traipsing around in a goat pen, after all--and headed across the golf course.
Yes, there is a golf course smack dab in the middle of the neighbourhood where my folks live. And yes, there is a house off the 6th or 7th green with a yard full of goats. I couldn't make this up.
This is Billy. The Billy of the herd. He is one nasty dude. I was warned, but refused to believe in the foul habits of a billy goat. I don't think I got any photographic evidence, and believe me when I say this photo was taken *before* I witnessed it, but yes...billy goats pee on their beards.
It's quite a demonstration of agility and balance, really, but in the end I just wasn't as impressed as he possibly hoped. I guess his little trick works with the lady goats though, because there were dozens of little faces like this staring us down:
I got to break out the goat treats and become everyone's best friend for a few minutes, and despite Billy giving me far more attention than the little ones dared, it was a really cool thing to do on my birthday. Yeah, that's me, turning 38 and livin' it up at a petting zoo, with a smelly pee-covered billy goat chasing me around and shoes covered in straw and poo. I am probably the world's cheapest date. And I'm okay with that.
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