Photo Essay: Yoga With Baby Goats

So, goat yoga is a thing now.

And while I'm usually one to buck trends instead of following them, I'll admit I was intrigued.

I've never even liked yoga very much when I've done it—and I certainly don't fit into the stereotypical Southern California "yoga lifestyle." I'm far more comfortable with a camera slung around my neck than with a yoga mat slung over my shoulder.

But I decided to go anyway because, you know, baby goats.



It was my first visit to Sunny Cabana Farm in the Inland Empire own of Perris, and the timing was perfect because new kids had just been born a week before.



And signing up for a yoga class was the only way I knew to go visit them.



I'd even planned on doing some of the yoga poses, convinced mostly by photos I'd seen on the internet showing newborn kids perched atop the backs of yogis doing child's pose. For some reason, I desperately wanted a baby goat to stand on my back.



But now that I've done my sun salutations with goats, I've walked away with just one, bubble-bursting impression: It's all a lie.



More accurately, it's a setup. It seems that the only way you can get a goat to stand on your back is to have someone pick it up and put it on there.



And since those little wobbly legs aren't strong enough to keep them there on their own, they're likely to slide off.



All those goat yoga photos that make it seem like the goats are actually doing the yoga with you? They're posed.



And the people who go to goat yoga? All they want is a souvenir photo like that of their own.



And certain people of a certain gender and a certain age are particularly aggressive about getting the perfect shot—not just once, but over and over and over again.



I mean, I get it. I'm an avid photographer as well. But I'm rarely in my own pictorials.



I'd rather focus on the subject matter at hand—which, in this case, was the most adorable herd of sweet, precious, affectionate does and their kids.



So, I waited until everyone else was done passing the babies around the yoga circle, even as they wriggled to get free and bleated for their mamas.



I scooped up a baby goat of my own—but it was one that seemed like it wanted to snuggle and immediately collapsed into my arms and nuzzled my neck, collarbone, jaw, and chin. It sniffed me as I whispered sweet nothings into its floppy little ear.

And I let my camera hang from its strap so I could enjoy the moment, inhale this tiny creature's breath, and feel its hoof digging into my chest.

I don't have any photos of me holding any of those bundles of joy, but that's OK. It's a moment I'll remember because I fully experienced it, and I don't need to prove to the world that it actually happened.

Those goats will never be as young or as cute as they were that Saturday morning. And while I hope that there will be more week-old floofs in my future, I made this visit count.

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Goat Yoga Revelations

I had an important revelation this morning: I don't hate yoga.

I actually quite like yoga—when it's outside, and when your sun salutations are saluting the actual sun.

I always thought I hated yoga, but now I realize that what I really hate is yoga studios. How can I possibly empty my mind with that music the play, and the clattering chatter right outside the door? How can noticing my surroundings help at all when I feel stale and sweaty, and I smell the rubber stench of hundreds of yoga mats before me?

Give me a purple picnic blanket under the shade of a tree in Griffith Park, with the morning breeze wafting over a not-so-distant perfume of horses, and the traffic from Riverside Drive and the 5 Freeway drowning out all my thoughts.

That's how I like yoga.



Oh, and it helps if a pygmy goat jumps on my back.



I gave "goat yoga" another try this morning, this time closer to home, but with fewer goats and many more fellow yogis.



There were so many people that I could barely hear our instructor call out the poses, but who were we kidding? We were there for the goats.



And, as a bonus, we got a miniature horse, too.



Of course, goats—like many animals—are motivated by food, so it's pretty easy to train them to jump on human backs during child's pose or downward dog.



It doesn't exactly come naturally to them—but it's not entirely foreign to them, either. Like cats, goats like a high vantage point.



I've never been so motivated to complete my asanas, and I've never felt so at peace in a yoga class.



And it wasn't just because of those creatures, who alternated between smiling...



...and snuggling...



...and who were at once mischievous...



...and lovable.

Those little guys helped, of course, but I think my turnaround today was more about the fresh air, the dirt and grass beneath my warrior feet, and the wide open sky.

Ten years ago, I would've told you I prefer to be inside rather than outside, no matter what the weather. It had been that way my whole life—until relatively recently.

I missed out on the call of the outdoors in 7th or 8th grade, when I got to go on an orienteering field trip. Translation: I spent the day getting lost in the woods with my classmates.

And that's the most fun I had in the entirety of my primary and secondary education.

Upon my return home, I'd gotten in so much trouble with my mother that I think I'd blocked all the joy of it out. I only just recently remembered anything about that day that didn't entail my mud-caked sneakers and the punishments I endured afterwards.

The outdoors probably came calling a few times after that, but I never realized I was being beckoned.

Even when I went away to college, I had the opportunity to participate in a so-called "outdoor education" course—and my only response was, "Yich, who'd want to do that?"

Now, I wish I'd learned more early on. I've got a lot of catching up to do.

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In Praise of The Goat Gaze

"The Male Gaze" gets all of the attention by gender academics. But right now, I don't care how men see me or even that men see me.

Men can gaze at me all they want, if they even want to, but I don't want to devote any thought to it.

It's impossible, though, to happily go through life without anyone or anything gazing at you—and without being able to gaze back.

So, I figure: if not people, then animals.

Cats might stare at you—out of curiosity or intimidation—but once you meet their gaze, the challenge is on. They'll retreat, or they'll attack.

The best thing you can do with cats is not to avert your eyes altogether, but to "slow blink." You look at them, slowly close your eyes, keep them closed for a beat, and then slowly open them back up.

It works like a charm—and the kitty likely will mirror the behavior back at you, like some ancient bowing ritual.

Aiming your slow blink in the general direction of a cat—rather than keeping your eyes open and locking them with theirs—says to them, "I trust you enough to close my eyes in your presence, and likewise I pose no threat to you."

It's not love, per se—but it is a contract of loyalty, and it feels good.

Dogs, on the other hand, have the gift of the good gaze. They stare directly into your soul, and they allow you to stare into theirs.

Dogs are better able to articulate the muscles in their faces, too, which is why they seem to have so much more personality—and emotional connection to humans—than cats do. Cats, of course, do smile, but you have to have gotten really close up to them in order to be able to see it.



But there's another domesticated animal that both gazes and smiles at you—just as much as a dog does, though it's considered a "non-companion" animal.



Hence, the "goat gaze."



I've experienced it myself in my encounters with goats, of course...



...but personal experience can be unreliable, since it's easy to anthropomorphize animals you spend a little time with.



Goats are goats and not humans—nor dogs, nor cats—so, in order to understand goat behavior, you've got to study goats in a goat world. (I say this with some level of hypocrisy, having just taken a yoga class with baby goats wearing pajamas, which isn't a very natural thing for goats to do.)



About a year ago, the peer-reviewed scientific journal Biology Letters published a study on the gazing behavior of goats—specifically, that directed towards humans—that more or less confirms the evidence I've amassed empirically.



Using dogs as a comparison—since domesticated canines communicate with humans through eye contact in a way that wild wolves do not—the authors found that goats similarly need human-facing contact in order to complete a task.



That is, they need to be looked at, as much as they need to look.



You might not expect this from an animal that was domesticated primarily for production—meat, milk, offspring—rather than for companionship.



But, of course, goats also make great companions.



And when you're with them, it's not enough to be present.



You need to be paying attention to them.



That's why when others were perfecting their "mountain" poses and attempting the one-legged Vrikshasana without toppling over, I found myself still sitting on my yoga blanket, letting the goats—the mamas and the daughters—come to me.



At one point I think I had four goats next to me and on my lap while the rest of the class was practicing their Chaturanga—earning me the nickname "The Goat Whisperer" among my classmates.



But I think it's just because when the goats looked at me...



...I looked back.



And that is considered, on both our parts I guess, an "enhanced communication skill."



In my experience (though not that of the researchers), it doesn't have anything to do with food—a prime motivator for both dogs and cats.



In fact, at this yoga class, we had no treats to ply the goats with—and yet they came and sat on my lap and crawled on my belly and jumped on the back of a fellow yogini anyway.



And somehow, the authenticity of the interaction with them made it a much better experience—though I didn't do much more than five minutes of the yoga class.



My time was better spent scratching a pajama-wearing baby goat behind her ears, under her chin, and down both sides of her neck. And besides, if I would stop—to pet a different goat, to scratch my nose, or to get a drink of water—she would start to bleat and nose at me so I'd turn my face towards hers.

This behavior of goats—which is dependent not only on the orientation of the human body but also of the human head (that is, whether or not you're looking directly at them)—has been seen not only in dogs but also horses.

And perhaps the most telling of all is that these goat behaviors, which aren't exclusive to the kids but are shared by the adults, are also found in human toddlers.

That makes more of an impediment to practicing yoga, but it also provides an impetus to actually try yoga. More than a few other people at these classes are trying yoga for the first time—just because of the goats.

And the goats—not just their presence, but also their gaze—is what's brought me back to yoga, after years of trying it and hating it.

This particular "goat yoga" experience at Lavenderwood Farm in Thousand Oaks was the best one I've had so far, with the friendliest, cuddliest goats and the most respectful, least narcissistic students.

But I don't think I'll stop there—because the more I learn about goats or cows or cats or birds or alpacas or mules or horses, the more I learn about myself and the world around me.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Yoga With Baby Goats
Goat Yoga Revelations

Photo Essay: Baa-mastay with Baby Goats

I first attended baby goat yoga at Oats and Ivy Farm in 2017—back when I was trying to hit all the goat farms for all the baby goats.

 

circa 2017

Photo Essay: Happy Bah-lloween with Goats in Costume

I kind of thought I was done with goat yoga. After all, it's been just an excuse to make friends with goats. I don't actually do much yoga while I'm there.



But it's Halloween, and Lavenderwood Yoga in Thousand Oaks was hosting a yoga session featuring baby goats in costume.



My hand was forced.



Given the time of year, the goats' pheromones were going crazy, so they were rubbing their heads on everything.



They weren't just head-butting (or butt-butting).



They were rubbing and pushing and getting all up in there—bonus points if you gave them a good firm petting where their horns should be.



It was the first class of the day, so the goats started out rambunctious but eventually calmed down in warm sun bliss.



Some of the goats were true babies—the youngest was three months old—but some were coming into their womanhood, already breeding or ready to be bred (which can start as young as eight months old).



At Lavenderwood, the goats aren't bred to have babies for sale—the breeding is to select the best genetic characteristics to make them good show goats.



They also serve as a 4H project for young girls interested in agriculture and animal husbandry.



They're some of the best behaved goats I've met.



Among the costumes were a witch...



...a lumberjack...



...and a king.

Photo by Cat Lukaszewski

My favorite one was dressed up as a jailbird—but in the end, I was a prisoner of her love. She snuggled my neck and I whispered sweet nothings into her ear. She leaned into every kiss.

What a treat.

Related Posts:
In Praise of The Goat Gaze
Photo Essay: Yoga With Baby Goats