I think it is a sign of the coming apocalypse that suburban residents think they need to have farm animals on their property. And women are entirely impractical about pets.
Now, coming from an individual who in the past has kept four of the six giant snake species in a Brooklyn apartment this might sound slightly self-serving and hypocritical. In fact, it probably is. But everybody always says a boy needs his hobbies. No one ever says a girl needs her hobbies. QED.
But I maintain that I am a reformed former animal horder. For this reason, I feel that I have the right to pronounce judgement against this misguided practice.
Going through the various animal keeping proclivities of our marriage, it is obvious that eventually we would branch out from indoor menageries and end up in the barnyard. And after the fiasco of the Great Quail Fail of 2017 (as it came to be known) it was inevitable that Camera Girl would want revenge. But my actual problem with the new animal introduction is practical. The winters in New England can be brutally cold and snow filled. It occurs to me that during some prodigious snow fall when the goat enclosure is engulfed by some absurd 50” snow fall that I will be called upon at some god-awful hour to go out and clear a space for the goats to allow them to get at their food and water. And based on my memory of Lovecraft’s description of Shub-Niggurath, (“The Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young”), I believe there is a better than even chance that the critters will take advantage of my proximity and vulnerability to stage some kind of satanic attack upon my person.
Alright, I don’t really think it will be satanic. But goats are jerks and they will probably butt me with their stupid horns and that will probably really hurt. So, there’s that. Plus, I’ll have to clean out their pen because let’s face it, men always get stuck with the crappy jobs. So that’s why I hate the goats. But Camera Girl does feed me and stuff so I guess it’s still a good deal. I guess.
But have you ever looked at goats. They’ve got those weird eyes that are really weird and maybe they are satanic. And they’re gonna eat everything they can get their teeth into so they’ll turn their pen into the Plain of Gorgorath where nothing can survive. Plus, I’ll bet the pen will be under constant assault by the local coyote pack and they’ll be howling every night and I’ll probably have to defend the stupid goats as if I actually wanted them to survive. It’ll be like that scene in Whisperer in the Darkness where the old guy is defending his compound from the giant fungus lobsters with his rifle and german shepherds. Except that german shepherds are actually useful and goats aren’t. And I don’t have a rifle. And coyotes aren’t lobsters. But it was in New England.
I feel that the only hope is if biological science makes rapid advances in genetic engineering. If genetically modified goats that only grow to the size of crickets could be commercially available then my problem would be solved. I could set up a pen for them in the kitchen junk drawer and they would be a very small problem to take care of. So that’s what I’m banking on at this point. The goats are supposed to arrive a week from Saturday so there’s still time. I know it’s a long shot but my luck’s got to change some day. Maybe this will be it. So, come on you genetic researchers, stop being so selfish and put aside all this cancer jazz for a minute, and solve a really urgent need, the world’s cricket-sized goat shortage. What color ribbon is still available for the cause?