I was assigned an emotional support goat.
Not a cute baby goat.
A grumpy, bearded goat named Göran. From Lapland. With a judgmental stare.
First session, I say, “I feel like a failure.”
He chews a tin can. Burps. Then says,
“You are.”
I blink.
“You’re supposed to help me!”
He replies: “I am. I’m cutting through your BS.”
I try again. “I have dreams, Göran.”
He looks at me, poops on the floor, and says,
“So does every goat in the slaughterhouse. Still ends the same.”
I start crying.
He sighs.
“You humans call it depression. We goats call it Tuesday.”
I come back next week. He’s painting. I ask what he’s painting.
He says, “My escape.”
I say, “From what?”
He says, “From you.”
One day I ask, “Why do you even stay here?”
He chews thoughtfully.
“Because watching you spiral is the only soap opera I get.”
I finally scream: “DO YOU EVEN BELIEVE IN ME?!”
He looks up, slowly, with goat eyes that have seen lifetimes.
“No. But I believe you’re too stubborn to give up. And that’s enough.”
He headbutts me gently.
Session over.
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