No kidding. Goats are hot
Scout Raskin owns three dogs, a cat, turtles and a pair of hermit crabs. Still, she longed for a country pet to round out the menagerie at her home in a semirural neighbourhood in Los Angeles County. A horse was too big for the backyard, a chicken impossible to cuddle. That is why in March she found herself at a Jack in the Box fast food restaurant in Lancaster, Calif., a desert town on the western edge of the Mojave Desert, where she met a goat breeder with two Nigerian dwarf kids in the back of his Honda Odyssey.
Raskin had picked out Spanky and Pippin online weeks earlier and was taking them home. She was inspired, in part, by the goat yoga craze popular among Lululemon-wearing Hollywood women and actresses like Rebecca Romijn. “Goats are hot these days,” said Raskin, a former child actress. “Adults mostly want to get down on all fours and let the goats jump on them.”
Goats have long been a popular subject of videos. There are fainting goats, screaming goats, goats in pyjamas and goats with anger issues. There is a virtual game where the sole purpose of a goat is to wreck stuff and even a Tony Award-winning play by Edward Albee, “The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?,” in which the lead character has an affair with the pet in question. But in the past few years, a swell of fun-loving billys has moved off-line and into people’s backyards, living rooms and hastily-built barns. Indeed the number of registered Nigerian dwarf goats, beloved for their size and frisky good nature, has increased 7.5 per cent in three years, according to the American Goat Society.
Instagram has become a popular place for owners to share their goat tales. They are spotted on walks, taking dips in the pool and snuggling. Goats of Anarchy, a New Jersey rescue for goats with special needs, is a mecca for soft-hearted goat lovers, with 499,000 followers and a line of books, socks and calendars.
“I know there are stereotypes: They eat cans and smell bad,” said William Kowalik, a representative of the American Goat Society. “That’s not true. They are very much like dogs. They are great pets. The goats know what kind of mood you are in. They can get a person to open up.”
Angela Bailey lives a 20-minute drive from St. Paul, Minn. A friend suggested she get a goat, saying their milk was easy to digest. In May, Bailey’s husband gave her two kids for her birthday. “They wag their tails when they are happy,” she said. “They like to be scratched and petted, and they love to be around all of us.” Equally appealing, she said, “their poop does not stink.”
Bailey’s city friends weren’t as thrilled. “It felt like they were rolling their eyes a little,” she said. Her six children, though, have warmed up to the goats, especially her girls. “There’s a lot of hugging going on,” she said.
Goats have a defined social caste, despite their laid back goofiness. “Everyone has their own spot,” said Kowalik, who has goats and lives in San Antonio. “They learn the order, and if you don’t follow it, they will pout.” If a goat sniffs another goat’s food, “they’ll walk off and refuse to eat,” he said. “If a piece of watermelon touches the ground, they won’t eat it. They also get into: ‘That’s not my bowl. I am not going to drink from it.’”
Perhaps the most difficult part of owning a goat is finding a neighbourhood zoned for farm animals. Leanne Lauricella started the Goats of Anarchy animal rescue in 2015. She had left her job as an event planner in Manhattan and moved to rural New Jersey, where she adopted two rescue goats. The herd has grown to 52, a haven for animals that have lost feet because of frostbite, are missing limbs, were abused or have congenital disorders.
She funds the rescue mostly through donations, in part, because of a clever Instagram account where she posts videos and photographs documenting the travails of caring for her brood, including Polly, a blind goat with anxiety; Grace, who was abused by teenagers; and Pocket, who lost the bottoms of both back legs and wears prosthetics.
A recent favourite was Lawson, who came to Lauricella earlier this year with a heart condition and shrivelled back legs. She kept him in the house dressed in a onesie where he slept in a playpen. Later, Lauricella fitted him with a cart to go outside. She found a doctor willing to perform open-heart surgery, and on June 17, told her Instagram followers it was a success. Lawson came home on June 29. “I had Lawson in my lap for a few snuggles and he started to scream out of nowhere,” she later wrote on Instagram. “He instantly turned blue.” Lawson died in her arms the day after he came home.
The response from her followers was overwhelming. Within an hour, more than 3,000 people offered condolences. That number rose to 23,445 by the week’s end. One of those who commented was Patricia Hunt from Concord, Calif., who said she cried when Lawson died. She does not own a goat, but she felt a kinship with Lauricella and her herd. “I was so pulling for him,” she said of Lawson.
Raskin, the Californian who picked up her goats at the Jack in the Box, quickly learned how popular her goats would become. She now rents out Spanky and Pippin for $75 an hour. They were featured on the Hallmark Channel. They are a hit on the Los Angeles goat yoga circuit. Pippin recently wore a white wedding dress to welcome a groom to his bachelor party. But by far the most elaborate setup was a 30th birthday soiree. More than 30 people showed up to play goat Twister.