More than a few months ago, I got an idea for my birthday. Some may think it childish, bizarre, off-the-wall or downright stupid, but I thought it was brilliant, if not a tad eccentric. The perfect way I wanted to celebrate my entrance to the 30s, at least during the day. And this idea became my not-so-secret secret, which I confided in several people, including my boyfriend, Ricardo. When I told him, roughly six months ago, I think he looked at me with one of his increasingly familiar Lord-what-do-I-do-with-this-woman (or in Spanish, ay contigo) half-grins, speechless, but supportive.
This grand idea I had was to rent a goat for my birthday. Not only for the sheer pleasure of a goat's company, but also for the thrill of doing something unexpected, something unusual for my birthday. My plan was to walk my rented goat through downtown on a leash. If people could walk poodles and ferrets, strut with painted parrots on their shoulders, then why couldn't I walk a goat on a leash through the city? Surely one of the goat rental places in the area would oblige such a unique request.
I didn't actually think it would happen, but still, I was disappointed as my birthday arrived and I had no plan for renting a goat. So I was floored when Ricardo confessed to me over coffee this morning, with a hint of devastion in his voice, that he was unable to secure a goat for the day. I kind of laughed and shrugged it off as a joke, until he told his story. Of how he called a place in Redmond that rents goats, and how the lady sounded happy and eager to rent to him until he told her what he wanted the goat for. There must have been silence on the other end, then, incredulation. Something like, "You want a goat for what? Uh... I don't think... let me see.... I'll have to check with the boss on that, uh, request, but... yeah, I don't think we can do that." And then Ricardo, working his persuasive business skills to surprisingly no avail. They wouldn't budge. It sounded too dangerous, a goat in downtown. "But we'd have him on a leash," Ricardo tried to assure her. Click.
And then he called his friend in Woodinville, who owns a herd of goats. His friend laughed, too, probably muttered something along the lines of "poor guy with the crazy girlfriend." Still, he said he would have liked to help, but his goats were out of town until next week.
I laughed in that coffee shop until the tears were practically rolling down my cheeks. I was simply impressed that Ricardo tried. I mean, he had a plan, even a truck for transporting the goat and a friend willing to be the chauffeur. We came so close. My hope is not lost, though; the year has only just begun.