Janie and I spent Sunday afternoon at the Evergreen State Fair in Monroe, Washington. This is the second year that we’ve gone to this smaller of two state fairs specifically to pet some horses. Janie loves horses and since we can’t have a horse of our own, we’re relegated to the fairgrounds for her to see some ponies and for me to pat them and become terrified. I’m afraid of horses.
In addition to the horses, we poked around at the other animals. We peeked into the pens of goats as they gathered for their judging. One bad goat, in particular, was head butting every other goat in his pen:
After the regular goats, we made our way to the pygmy goat barn. We developed an affection for these goats after seeing some photographs of a goat belonging to my father’s co-worker. That goat, Beeper, was the runt of the litter and he was, when born, about the size of a can of pop. He lives with the family now, sleeping inside with them and enjoying the sweet life while all the other goats fear for their lives in the dark of night. We spent a lot of time looking at the goats and, in particular, enjoyed the babies and those who were so eager to eat that they buried their heads in their bag of feed or just nestled under the mountain of hay to eat their way out. That’s my kind of goat.
After the pygmy goats. we took a quick stroll through the sheep barn where I was visually sexually assaulted by a curly-haired sicko. His goat wiener was sticking out and it just got longer and longer and longer until he reached his head around and gave it a little lick or two before retracting it. It was uncomfortable and I think that the goat and I both felt a little ashamed afterward.
Next up was the swine barn. We checked out two new litters of piglets and several other larger pigs who were loud and hungry. The owner of one of the litters of newborns was holding a piglet and letting people pet it, but I didn’t get a chance because all these toddlers were swarming me and I knew that if I got any closer to the fray I’d be trampled and Janie would be a widow. Instead, I took pictures of quiet, sleeping pigs.
We had lunch and listened to a country band. Just before they played their last song, the boyfriend of the female singer, just back from two years in Iraq, proposed. She said yes. I had a barbecue pork sandwich and Janie had grilled chicken and rice.
Lastly, we made it to the horse barn and slowly weaved our way through stall after stall of terrifyingly large but pretty sweet animals. First were the draft horses with their enormous feet…
Then we came upon the other, regular horses. The smaller horses, but not the freakishly small mini horses which I find creepy and refuse to look at. I saw them last time and I hope never to see them again. These horses, most owned by little girls between 6 and 16 years old were given the most ridiculous names that no good horse should suffer: Mariah, Lacey, Katie, Kim, and Amber. To make matters worse, some threw glitter on their horses ass or put pink ribbons in their manes. It made me realize that while many little girls dream of owning a horse, they can’t bear the responsibility of treating them with dignity and therefor should be stuck with the mini horses that are already freakishly small and better able to bear the burden of young girls and their glitter glue.