Monthly Archives: August 2011

Don’t Kill Whiteboy; Not a Racial Post

Most of you may not know this about me, but I love goats.

 A lot.

When I was a kid living out in the boonies, my family owned a “herd” of goats. We had about 10 adults and a few babies from time to time. They actually make great pets and can be quite affectionate.

In my opinion, probably the cutest thing in the world would have to be a baby goat.

When I was about 8 years old, one of the mother goats gave birth to the first baby goats we ever had: Twins.

They were both completely white and beautiful.

My sister and I named them Cottonball and White Boy.

At the time, my parents weren’t very supportive of our decision to name them, and we had no idea why.

As time went on, much to the chagrin of my parents, my little sister and I grew more and more attached to our new baby goats.

My parents finally realized that these animals which were intended to be livestock had inadvertently crossed over the blurry little line of becoming pets.

So one day they had a talk with us.

 Mother: So, you understand why we got these goats don’t you?

Me:  For love.

Mother: No. Not exactly.

Me: To be in tune with Mother Nature?

Mother: No…y-“

Me: I like Jack Hanna.

Mother: No! We got them to eat.

The 4th of July was coming up and my parents were throwing a big party. They wanted to roast one of the baby goats for everyone to eat (you don’t eat full grown ones).

Now before you go and judge my parents for roasting a goat, you should know that in some cultures this is perfectly normal, like in Mexico….. and Iran.

My mother warned me that they were going to have to use one of the goats for roasting at the party.

But I just thought she was bluffing.

So I immediately moved on with my life, flooded with the delusion that my parents couldn’t possibly be serious.

Dun

 

 

Dum

 

 

DUUMMMMMM!

 

 

Dun Dum Duummmm!

 

 

One day, a few weeks later,  my little sister and I were playing up in the tree house together when we spotted Mom and Dad out with the goats.

The only problem was, my sister and I were both bare feet-ed and the path between us and my parents was a landmine of stickers and thorns.

We knew time was not on our side, so as fast as we could, my little sister and I ran into the house to get our shoes.

Once in our bedroom, within seconds I had my shoes on and was ready for action.

Yet, I forgot that Rebecca was still at the age where she was struggling with the whole shoes on the feet concept.

I remember her shoes were those little Jellies that were so popular back then.

As soon as the shoes were on her feet, we rushed out our back door as fast as our little legs could carry us.

Ok let’s be real here. If it was my dad it probably looked more like this:

Upon seeing our reaction, my parents realized that the goat had, despite their efforts and warnings, become more of a pet to us than livestock.

I think they felt pretty bad about the whole thing

So, never again was a goat eaten at our house….after that particular day of course.


Discussion Questions:

No questions. Just a comment: Oh, Alexa. Really?

What?! I was a kid. I bounced back easily from hardship.

Still.

My Book:

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