Goats Don't Like Wheelchairs

Goats don't like wheelchairs . . .

  My first grade field trip to the local farm was going great. I got to ride a pony, hand-feed chickens and play in the giant haystack with my classmates. My mother came along to help the teacher with me so I would be allowed to participate in the activities, and to prevent me from doing crazy things like climb a giant rope swing so I could toss myself into the haystack. I begged and cried for my mom to let me climb, but she had to threaten to take me home, causing me to miss the highlight of our trip, the petting zoo.

  Not wanting to miss hugging all of the baby animals, I reigned in my tantrum and resolved myself to playing at the bottom of the giant pile of hay. I watched with longing as my classmates climbed the rope, swung into the hay and rolled to the bottom. A few of my friends decided to include me by making me judge their climbing contest. My frustration dissolved as we laughed and argued about who climbed the highest and who fell instead of jumped.

  Soon it was time to see the baby animals. I was so tired with all of the running around so my mom suggested I sit in my chair and she pushed me to the petting zoo. When we got to the pen, the baby animals were not so little compared to me, and the teacher told my mom I'd have to stay in my chair (at that moment I was too tired to argue). My mom pushed me inside and parked me next to the gate while she went to retrieve some animal feed for me. I looked around at all of the animals. There were piglets, lambs, ducklings, rabbits and goats.

  I was overwhelmed with excitement as I saw my friends petting and feeding the animals. Suddenly, I wanted to get out of my chair and play with them, but my mom told me to stay put so I began to call,

"Here baby animals! Come here baby animals!"

  One of my classmates responded, "I don't think that works. They're not dogs. Only dogs come here when you say, 'come here.'"

  I grew annoyed. "Mommy, I want to go pet the animals. Can I get out now, pleeeeeaaase?"

"No, just sit tight. I'll be over there in a minute to help." My mom called. She was assisting the teacher in handing out bags of feed.

  I felt extremely impatient and frustrated, because my wheelchair was preventing me from enjoying the petting zoo. As I sat there fuming, I hadn't noticed the baby goat trotting up to me. He bleated once and I looked to the side.

"Hi baby goat!" I said, excitedly. "Mommy, it's a baby goat!" I called to my mother.

"Oh great, honey. I'll be there in a second."

  The little goat was barely as tall as my big wheels. He was black and white with two tiny horns starting to protrude from his head. My mom handed me a small feed bag and showed me how to feed him. Once I had the hang of it, she went back to assist the teacher.

  The goat was soon joined by two more goats. I was giddy with excitement as they nuzzled my hands and accepted the feed I gave them. Pretty soon I was out of food and the goats began sniffing around my chair.

"Mommy they want more food!" I shouted at my mom. Then to the goats, "My mommy is going to get you food, it's okay." I reached over to pet a little brown goat, but he backed away and then head-butted the wheel of my chair

"Hey, that was mean!" I scolded.

  As if on cue, the other two goats began attacking my chair, head-butting the tires, stamping their hooves against the frame and ramming into the side so hard that it nearly toppled over. I let out a terrified scream. My mother and the petting zoo attendant came running and shoed off the goats. Mom pushed me outside of the gate and after I'd calmed down, she handed me a bag of feed and wheeled me around the fence so that I could feed the animals through the gate. We came to another goat, but I refused to put my hand in. I thought goats didn't like me so I decided not to like goats.

  Three years later, I attempted going to a petting zoo again, and again my wheelchair was assaulted by goats. However, I realized something about the 'attack' that my six year old mind did not. They were not attacking my chair out of spite. They were trying to hone their newly developed horns.

Goats don't like wheelchairs . . . They love them.