goats
While living on a farm in Georgia, I signed up to take care of the goats. It was the only farm chore that allowed me to sleep in. The duties were odd and specific: I had to check their butts for signs of dysentery and their eyes — which, like sheep, can see in every direction at the same time — for infection. For weeks, I fed one goat a whole head of molasses-soaked garlic every day to cure her of mastitis. But mainly, I just counted them. Which is harder to do than you might imagine.
The blessed goats. Photo courtesy Chad Adamik
When wildfires raged across Nevada in July, Chad Adamik knew he needed goats.
Kiko goats in Yazoo City, Miss. Photo by Cathleen Falsani.
Some 15 years ago, my aunt and uncle gave me the gift of goat for Christmas.
Let me rephrase: They didn’t give me an actual goat, but they donated a goat — in my honor — to a village in the developing world.
At age 15, I was less than pleased. The plight of starving children and the needs of my indigent brothers and sisters around the globe were far too serious and far too abstract for my selfish teenage brain to wrap itself around.
Today, though, I find myself in the ironic position of wanting to buy goats, mosquito nets, and other items as Christmas gifts in honor of my own family members. This causes me to look back on my selfishness as a teen and see how blind I was to the idea of grace — to the beauty and significance of my aunt and uncle’s gift.
It's been a rough day for some of you, so here's a little something to make you (hopefully) smile.
We give you: Goatee the Surfing Goat of Grover Beach, Calif.
Watch video of Goatee hanging 10 ... um, four? eight? ... inside.