By April Redmond

Office Administrator

This past week, I had three strangely-timed encounters with goats: one at the county fair, one at a restaurant and one in a TV series.

Naturally, I have been thinking about goats for four days now. If you know any of my other tales, you know this led to questions, so I wandered off into one of my trademark research adventures.

It started at the county fair. Before settling into newspaper-mongering purgatory (I love my job, but it was hot outside. So hot. Very, very hot.), I wandered up the hill and came upon a tent filled with goat stalls. Some were bleating, which made me smile, so I stopped.

One pen held two brown-and-white goats, the same colors as my late basset hound. I was petting them, laughing and enjoying the moment when one started butting me with her horns. I later learned she was trying to fight me. Then she started chewing on my skirt hem, so I decided to speak to the owner and learn a little about these hoofed troublemakers.

After about five minutes of conversation, the day turned dark. I learned that goats are fun animals until they aren’t: they eat everything, snack constantly, escape easily, and are very stubborn. I realized at that moment that I might be part goat.

When I asked why one goat was missing his horns, I learned goats are sometimes dehorned before being sent to the packers. I was confused. Obviously, they were not being sent to Wisconsin to sign for the NFL.

I looked at the man in astonishment and whispered so the goats wouldn’t hear me, “They are going to be someone’s food?” Unfortunately, yes. I knew I had to detach at once. I told the goats goodbye, wished the owner good luck with his sale, and left the tent. I could hear the goats bleating in the distance, as if they were crying for me to rescue them. Not really, but I can still pretend.

Fast forward to Friday night. The husband wanted a Greek gyro for dinner. After we both defended our pronunciations of “gyro”—and after I privately confirmed mine was correct—I went to pick one up.

I asked the worker what kind of meat was on a Greek gyro. He simply looked at me and said, under his breath, “Goat.” That was it. Just that one word. For those of you who, like me, may have believed him for a minute, I was too shocked to remember that gyros in America usually contain lamb and beef. Not goat.

I got home with the gyro now emblazoned in my mind as the goat I had befriended two days before. I told my husband the story, and he was totally unfazed by the idea of eating such a thing folded into pita bread. My response was silent anger and sadness.

We settled in to watch one of my favorite shows — me with roast beef, him with his

fictitious goat meat. I was absorbed in dinner when, in the next scene, out of nowhere, a man walked a tiny goat on a leash over to a dragon and someone shouted, “Dracarys!” The dragon blasted fire, the goat was burned mid-bleat, and the dragon essentially ate it. My mouth dropped; I was speechless, which for me only happens when I sleep.

I am not sure what any of this means, if anything at all. I am not really superstitious, but three goat incidents in three days started to feel like a message. I thought about “The Three Billy Goats Gruff,” old stories that cast goats in strange or ominous roles, and why goats were raised for meat or used for anything besides food. I was curious. Or concerned. Or just downright crazy.

Once I moved past the emotional betrayal of discovering goats could be dinner, curiosity finally won over horror.

So, I Googled goats. I found out they are an economical source of protein in many places, including the Caribbean, Africa, Latin America, and the Middle East. If I traveled there and told people I ate cows, I wonder if they would be as appalled as I was by the thought of eating goats. I guess it was culture shock. I feel the same way about squirrels, rabbits and deer.

To me, they are pets, not snacks. I am a carnivore, and I can tear up a pork chop or chicken wings any day. I just never thought of goats as food. My mind is a very weird place.

On a lighter note, goats also produce dairy, and certain types provide fiber for clothing, including mohair from Angora goats and cashmere from cashmere-type goats. They can thrive in harsh environments, graze on almost anything green, and help control invasive vegetation.

After three goat encounters and one reluctant Google search, I feel calmer, remembering what my dad tells me every time I cry to him with a sad animal story: it is the circle of life. I still don’t intend to eat chevon. Instead, I might crochet a warm cashmere sweater and stay safely in the corner of my mind where goats are mischievous little weirdos, not menu items. ■