Here’s a true story about goat rape.
Let me clarify. This may just be a story about goat sex.
After all, how often is sex between two goats — or any two animals, for that
matter — actually consensual? I don’t know the percentages.
This particular instance, though, was undoubtedly 100-percent
non-consensual. And I have reflected on it a surprising amount.
After my freshman year of college I returned home to Oregon
and worked on a farm for a few months. One hot and sunny day, my boss had me
dig some ditches for irrigation pipes. Behind me was a large enclosed goat pen.
I didn’t pay it much attention at first, but that soon changed.
At some point in my ditch digging, one of the goats slipped its
head through the wire fence — an easy action considering the large, square
pattern of the wire, which squares were just about the size of a goat head.
Getting her own head out, though, well that proved more difficult. Her horns
angled back, getting caught every time she tried to free herself.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Court, you keep referring
to this goat as ‘she.’ How did you discern its gender from your vantage point?
Well, it’s an assumption I’m making based on events that
followed. I could be wrong, and maybe I shouldn’t assume. Perhaps you see where
this is going. Let’s get back to the story.
I looked at the goat as it struggled, and decided to
continue working on my ditch. The goat
would probably squirm her way out eventually. And if she didn’t, well, I
wouldn’t know how to get her head out either. Plus, this ditch wasn’t going to
dig itself.
The sounds of rustling, fidgeting and struggling continued
behind me as I sunk my shovel into the hard topsoil. After a while it began to
sound more agitated. I turned around. The goat had company: another goat. An
excited goat. The new addition repeatedly tried mounting the trapped goat from
behind. An opportunist, if ever there was one.
With her head still caught in the fence, the stuck goat
frantically swung her body back and forth, doing her best to fend off the
other’s advances, all the while with an expression that seemed to say, “OH,
WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?!?”
This went on for a little while, the victim valiantly,
desperately avoiding the inevitable. Oddly, my gut reaction wasn’t one of shock
or disgust. It was amusement. It made me laugh. And, as I watched these two
goats in their twisted pas de deux, I contemplated my hilarity. The very
thought of rape, among humans, instantly fills me with queasy revulsion and even
shame, that we are capable of such barbarism; such selfish disregard for
another’s dignity. Such disregard for our
own dignity. Yet I watched these goats and none of that dread entered my
heart. It was only amusement.
Should I feel bad for
feeling this way? I thought. Is it
wrong for me to find only humor in this scenario? Maybe it was the eager,
foiled attempts of the hind goat that really got me laughing. I don’t think I’d
find a successful attempt as funny. Or captivating.
Soon another farm worker came by — a short, round,
middle-aged, leather-skinned Mexican man named Celestino. Walking over to the fence,
Celestino spit on the palms of his hands, grabbed the goat’s horns and eased her head out of the wire fence. The goat ran off, relieved and unmolested, and
Celestino sauntered back my way. He spoke almost no English, but he looked at
me, chuckled heartily as he wiped his hands on his jeans, then walked away.
It was funny to him, too. And in that, somehow, I don’t feel so bad.
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