Baby Goats & Bad Karma

Baby Goats

I had a dream last night about a puppy, a small brown goofy puppy, and I told Dave jokingly that I thought it meant that we should get a puppy. He keeps nixing kittens, metaphorically speaking, so I thought I might sneak a puppy in under radar, but no such luck. Since puppies and kittens were off the table, I told Dave about a blogger I read about who got some citation from the animal control people in her small town because she was keeping goats. (Who knew there were such things as illicit goats? Sounds medieval, no?) The blogger, one of those hippy-dippy, make-your-own-deodorant-type evirotards (for whom I have only the greatest respect, of course), showed a picture of her goats, her baby miniature goats. Each goat was about six pounds of pure adorableness. (Just by way of comparison, I've never owned an adult cat that wasn't at least twelve pounds.) The full grown goats will get to be a maximum of fifty pounds--about half Crunch's size. (Most miniature goats don't exceed 35 pounds actually.)

You know where this is going, right? Now Dave thinks we could have some miniature goats, at least two of them for company. I found a source, Tanglewood Farm, for miniature goats--well, actually, for miniature livestock of all kinds, goats, cows, donkeys, rabbits, Jack Russel terriers (which don't count as livestock, I don't think, but they're miniature!), pigs, sheep, llamas. No surprise that the place is in Georgia. Here's a picture from their website (which you can Google, because I don't want to link to it).

That horse must have done something very bad in a past life. That horse must have been the Roman Polanski of his century. That horse is today's lesson in karma. Karma, people! Perform all actions with one eye always on the possibility of karmic retribution. You'll thank me later.

Speaking of Karma

I'm not a huge fan of untalented poets, but there's always this:

Brahma
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near,
Shadow and sunlight are the same,
The vanished gods to me appear,
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.