We went to see the goats. Hundreds of goats, the advertisement promised, eating weeds and blackberry bushes and trees and anything remotely edible within reach. It was the last day of the festival, and I brought along my camera and a supportive but not so enthusiastic as myself boyfriend to witness my favorite animals in all their ruminant glory.
But there were no goats.
Apparently, they packed up the goats yesterday, a day early. No one knew why. "You can still smell 'em, though," one local resting on a bench assured me. "They were eating everything, standing up and eating the trees themselves. You can see for yourself where they were," he motioned to the clearing of trees and grass that appeared to have had a passing stampede.
I nodded, sadly. "Yeah, I saw that. Thank you." We walked over to the spot, surveying, and the faint smell of earth and animal and barnyard filled the nostrils.
"Would you take my picture?" I asked Ricardo. I posed, he clicked, we chuckled.
And then we went to play on the swings.
Some days are just like that.