Page 3 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“Alright, everyone,” Professor Martinez called out, clapping her hands to get our attention. “Welcome to our outdoor yoga session. Today we're going to be practicing mindfulness and presence with some very special guests.”
She gestured to the goat pen. “These beautiful babies are here to remind us that joy can be found in unexpected places, and that sometimes the best way to find peace is to embrace a little chaos.”
“That's very philosophical,” Artie said, settling onto her yoga mat.
“Just wait until they actually let the goats out,” I said, taking the spot next to her.
“They're letting them out?”
“That's kind of the whole point. They wander around during the poses. Sometimes they climb on you.”
Her eyes went wide. “They climb on you?”
“Artie,” I said seriously, “you're about to have tiny goats using you as a jungle gym. If this doesn't cure your stress-induced study psychosis, nothing will.”
And I was right. The moment the woman from the sanctuary opened the pen and the goats came tumbling out, Artie transformed. Gone was the anxious, overwhelmed student who'd been buried under textbooks. In her place was someone completely present, laughing as baby goats explored the yoga mats and climbing over anyone who stayed still long enough.
The spotted goat who'd been trying to get her attention made a beeline straight for her mat, like he'd been planning this moment his whole life.
“You've been chosen,” I said, settling into child's pose as Professor Martinez guided us through the warm-up.
“Best decision ever,” Artie replied, adjusting her downward dog to accommodate the goat who was now perched on her back like he owned the place.
As we moved through the sequence, more goats explored. They sought out the people who were most delighted by their presence, which meant Artie quickly became their favorite jungle gym. By the time we were attempting warrior three, she had two goats perched on her back and a third trying to eat her braids.
“I think they've adopted you,” I said, managing to hold my pose despite the goat that had decided my shoulder was the perfect spot for a nap.
“I’m adopting them,” she replied, reaching back to scratch behind the ear of the goat on her shoulders. “Look at this little face. How could anyone not want to take him home?”
“Pretty sure your dorm has a no-pets policy.”
“Details,” she said airily. “I could smuggle him in. He's small. I bet he'd fit in my backpack.”
“No.”
“I'm just saying, Tempest hid a whole-ass donkey in her sorority house. How hard could it be to have a teensy baby goat in the dorm?”
The joy on her face was infectious. Around us, other students were laughing and taking pictures as the goats explored their temporary playground. This was exactly what I'd been hoping for, Artie forgetting about finals and the future, just being present and happy.
And if I happened to notice the way her eyes lit up when she laughed, or how graceful she looked even with baby goats using her as a climbing structure, well, that was just me appreciating how good it was to see my best friend smile again.
“Okay, everyone, let's move into our final pose,” Professor Martinez called out. “Tree pose. And remember to stay grounded even if your branches have visitors.”
I shifted into the pose, finding my balance just as the goat on my shoulder decided to relocate to my outstretched arms. Beside me, Artie was perfectly steady despite having what looked like the entire goat population draped across various parts of her body.
“Show-off,” I muttered, which made her laugh again.
“It's all about core strength,” she said seriously. “Rugby training. Very applicable to goat management.”
“Goat management is definitely going on your resume.”
“Right under accounting degree.” This mention of her major didn't have that frantic edge of study insanity to it.
I was congratulating myself on a plan well executed when I heard the collective gasp from the other students.
“Oh shit,” I said. The spotted goat was a good twelve feet off the ground, sitting on the bronze statue shoulders of DSU's winningest football coach of all time, a.k.a. my father, Bridger Kingman. His triumphant bleating echoed across the quad, like he'd just conquered Everest.
“Language, Gryff,” Professor Martinez called out, but she was staring up at the statue with the same mixture of amazement and horror as everyone else.
