Old Goat Sanctuary

Old Goat Sanctuary–

A Classic ZippityZern Essay

A short train ride from “Africa Land” at Disney’s Animal Kingdom takes you to the children’s petting zoo. It’s one of our family’s favorite places on earth, because it is our family philosophy that you can never pet too many goats, and that place is crawling with goats. In fact, that’s our family motto, “E Pettacus Goaticus Maximus,” which roughly interpreted means you can never pet goats enough.

Except that you can pet goats enough, also too much.  Actually, it’s possible to pet the goats so much that their hair starts to fall out, their teeth get loose, and they develop palsy. This is known as over petted goat syndrome, and it’s devastating—for the goats.

To avoid over petted goat syndrome the Disney folks provide their goats with a kind of sacred animal sanctuary made of ropes and signs. In the petting zoo the goats have designated areas roped off for their protection and peace of mind.

Helpful signs hang from the ropes that explain, “Please don’t pet us while we’re behind the ropes. We’re resting,” or “Keep back goat killers!” Something like that.

It can be highly amusing to watch seventy or eighty children take out after the one brain damaged goat that wanders or is pushed out of the designated “resting” area—right out into open, unprotected terrain because an absolute orgy of goat petting can ensue. Like I said, the children’s petting zoo at Animal Kingdom is one of our favorite spots on earth. It’s like Mad Max’s “Thunder Dome” for goats.

Except when over petted goat syndrome hits too close to home.

My husband and I have been married for forty years, in defiance of stacks of people who said, “It will never last.” Not only has it lasted. It burns brighter today than back when my new husband wooed me on our honeymoon by saying, “I’ve waited twenty-one years, and I’m not waiting another minute.”

Yikes. What can I tell you? We were young, dumb, and virgins.

Now we’re old-ish and still pretty dumb, but I feel safe in saying that my husband finds me as much fun as those kids find those goats at that petting zoo—even after all these years. Which is great. No, really, it’s great—except when it’s just too much. So taking a clue from the Disney goats, I’ve had to create an island of protection, peace, and rest for myself amidst the sea of unrelenting “romance” that is my dear husband of forty years.

Yes, friends, I’ve had to designate my walk-in closet as my own personal SANCTUARY.

Our grown children are horrified, 1) because their parents still admit to indulging in “romance,” and 2) because they are related to us in any fashion, genetic or otherwise, as evidenced by the following conversation:

Our oldest daughter asked, “What is Dad talking about that your closet is sanctuary, and he’s not allowed in there?” She managed to look baffled and confused at the same time.

“Goats,” I said.

“What?”

“Goats. You know, goats,” I explained helpfully. Confusion exploded across her face.

I sighed and continued. “You know goats. Disney goats. The “Don’t pet us, we’re resting,” goats. Those signs for the goats at the petting zoo.”

“You make Dad stay out of your closet because of the goats at the petting zoo.” I could tell that she had put it together, but she still didn’t get it.

Frustrated, I asked, “Do you want my hair to fall out and my teeth to get loose?” I tapped my teeth for emphasis. She frowned.

“Okay, listen!” I knew that I just had to come out with it. “It’s like this. If I’m not careful your father is going to pet me to death.”

Her horror was audible.  She screamed.

“What? You asked! I can’t help it if he’s crazy about me!”

It’s true. It’s all so very true. My daughters are horrified. My sons are horrified, but for different reasons. The boys comments run more along the lines of, “Gee, Dad, that’s just wrong. I hope my wife never gets the sanctuary idea.”

Boys and girls, girls and boys, and goats—old and otherwise.

Linda (Do Not Disturb) Zern

E is for Egregious

“Travel,” they say. “See the world,” they say. See the world, eat the food, speak the words and become a dazzling example of a well-traveled polyglot.

No. Polyglot doesn’t mean someone with a lot of glots.

It means you can talk-talk in many tongues and dazzle your friends at parties.

Travel, I say, is overrated. I’ve traveled. I’ve been yelled at by airport security in many foreign lands and foreign tongues. And frankly, I hate it.

Arriving is nice. I enjoy arriving. Looking at other people’s trees. That’s nice. Although my own trees are quite fine too. But traveling . . .

Traveling is the third circle of hell, especially if you must pass through the purgatory of the Atlanta airport.

On our most recent visit to the third circle of hell . . . oops . . . er . . . I mean the world’s busiest airport our connection was tight. Let me explain, a “connection” is an impossibly short amount of time to both urinate in a toilet and run to the opposite end of the terminals—thus our connection was tight.

So tight, in fact, that we had to slam our way through the throngs of other poor souls milling about in search of a toilet without twelve people waiting in line. We raced for the train/tram/cattle car. It was packed.

My husband fearing that we would miss our connection shoved me onto the already jammed cattle care . . . er . . . um . . . I mean cool, modern, convenient public mode of transportation.

He yelled, “Get on.” And then kicked me forward with his foot.

The doors closed—not rebounding—because they don’t. The voice on the announcement was happy to explain that the doors would not rebound. The doors did not rebound. They closed. My husband did not make it. I slapped the palms of my hands against the windows, staring at his shocked face, as I moaned, “No. No. No.”

I turned to face the jammed cattle car . . . er . . . um . . . I mean complimentary public transport. The crowd of squashed travelers glared back at me with narrowed eyes and frowny lips. I moaned again.

He had the tickets. He knew the gate. He got on the next train. It was empty. He texted me the gate number. We stumbled onto our connecting flight. My life shortened by 3.7 years.

I believe strongly that I was treated egregiously and that traveling is wildly overrated.

When our youngest daughter was little, she had crazy curly hair that she would constantly zip into the tent zipper when we went camping. I’ll never forget finding her zipped into the tent, one more time, as she said, “I want to go home where we belong.”

Ditto.

That’s how I feel when I travel. “I want to go home where I belong.”

Linda (Homebody) Zern