The Men Who Stare at Goats (or, Why I Smell Like Livestock)
// May 23rd, 2007 // Blog, Patrick's Soapbox
Maybe you remember last year’s photo shoot.
This time, we decided to call ahead.
Needing to start publicity for The Churchill Protocol before the Fringe Tour, Kris and I (along with our photographer, the lovely and talented Jennifer Scrivens) went out to Bearbrook Farm (where they have a petting zoo and an abattoir on the property… creepy) in search of goats.
And man, were there ever goats. Petting Zoo Goats.
As we approached the fence they all trotted over, looking for pellets no doubt. Since we had none, they decided to try and reach the long grass just beyond the fence, while completely ignoring the long grass just inside the fence. There was a decided lack of sympathy on my part as they whined (brayed?) for our help. After trying our hardest to ignore the surprisingly cute livestock, we headed into the pen to have the photos taken.
You want to know the dark secret of petting zoos? They are covered in shit. Seriously, we could barely take a step without landing in goat poop (don’t tell our costume designer). It is everywhere. Boots definitely rode home in the trunk.
No sooner had we made our way through the gate than the whole herd (gaggle?) of goats made their way over to us. “This time,” their goat-brains thought, “they’ll have pellets for sure!” Unfortunately for them, we did not. But, as we looked for the best spot to take the pictures, the goats followed us around anyway. Eventually, some of them got bored and started grazing in another direction, but for the majority of the goats – goats that are exposed to people all the time – we were fascinating.
You know how they say “goats will eat anything”? This is ABSOLUTELY TRUE. We couldn’t put anything on the ground, because a) it was instantly covered in shit; and b) as soon as something that wasn’t goat shit touched the grass, all the goats would make their way over and gum it for five to fifteen minutes (unless we got it away from them sooner, which we always did).
Then, and I can’t remember how or when it happened, but suddenly, the goats turned on us. No more photos and no more cooperating. Now, I don’t know of “herding goats” is an expression – as in, “trying to do something very difficult and frustrating is like herding goats” – but it should be. Because man, trying to herd those goats was like herding goats. We chased them around and around the pen, and whenever we had one cornered, he somehow managed to escape (no, we weren’t outwitted by them. Goats are much stealthier than their cloven hooves let on).
Eventually, we caught one, and one of his kids followed, enthusiastically following his dad. Well, probably not his dad, since every eight seconds or so, Little Goat would try and mount Big Goat. Little Goat would mount, and Big Goat would buck. And no matter where we moved or how many times Little Goat was shooed away, there he’d be again, on his hind legs behind Big Goat.
Eventually, we got rid of Little Goat, and wrapped the photo shoot up shortly thereafter, as Big Goat (aka Marcel) was very cooperative from that point onward (it’s amazing what getting rid of a tiny goat penis will do for another goat’s morale).
But at the end of the day, after all the goat feces was cleaned from our boots and a weird greasy goat-fur substance was washed from our hands, I think we got our poster shot…
Get your tickets now.
- p
