I should probably explain the tiny goat thing…
When we had horses in the barn, we kept a goat or two, simply because the goats kept the horses company and many a horse likes to feel like they’re taking care of something. Bubbles, a palomino mare of 1980s vintage, used to like to take naps. It was not uncommon to peek into the stall and see Waylon, said goat, standing on top of Bubbles while she snoozed. Then there was Zachary, the pygmy goat that we took in when the Red Lodge Zoo closed. He was as wide as he was tall, yet he somehow managed to wriggle under the lowest stall-panel rung to share oats with his horses. Years later, a friend’s sister and her partner and I started sending toy goats back and forth, all because it made us laugh. One of my favorite wine labels? Goats Do Roam, of course, a lovely South African vintner. One of my favorite albums? Yo-Yo Ma with a quartet’s album “Goat Rodeo Sessions.” If there is a goat in the name, odds are I’ve probably laughed over it or tried to see if one of the horses like it.
The whole tiny-goat thing really got underway in 2013 when someone at the vet clinic sent me a photo of a tiny goat being weighed on the vet scale. That photo–a chubby, bristly black goat on a leash–made me laugh so hard that I danced around my office for a good three minutes. I then posted it to the clinic’s Facebook page, and that was one of our first photos to see wide usage and commentary. And sharing! Friends in far-flung locales such as New York got such a kick out of that tiny goat that they started sharing her, too. How could a tiny goat not make you appreciate a Friday afternoon all the more?
And no, it is NOT POLITE to tell this wee dearie that she is nearly as wide as she is tall.
A couple of years later, I decided that the best way to face inflammatory breast cancer and a bilateral mastectomy was to throw a party and invite my bestest girlfriends from across the country. We called it Boob Voyage, and we had to have both Austin, Texas, and Bridger, Montana versions to get all of the people there. Both were a smashing success, but the Montana version featured tiny goats. Tiny goats!
My deepest fear (or is it desire) is that someone will drop off a tiny goat at my parents’ house as either a joke or just because they know it will make me effervescently joyful, or at least it will until Dad realizes that the house has a tiny, bleating mascot that wants to come in, too. That would not be a good day for me, especially as Dad would send it packing back to Austin with me, even if I had to get it into my carry-on luggage.
So Tiny Goat Friday–it’s a thing!