Want to be Hip and Unhygienic? Try Goat Yoga!

I live in Los Angeles, a city that offers a cornucopia of hip new trends for the hip and trendy. I am neither hip nor trendy, so I’ve managed to avoid the usual fads such as sensory deprivation tanks, nutrient IV therapy and kale. (Don’t even get me started on kale. And if you say it’s more than a fad, I will punch you in the face.) But then goat yoga came on the scene, and I was sucked in.

What’s goat yoga, you may ask? It’s yoga. With baby goats. That’s right, baby goats, motherfucker!

My friend and I signed up for a class.

In the days before my first goat yoga experience, I daydreamed of little baby goats prancing and frolicking in a meadow while I did form-perfect sun salutations, majestically reaching my hands to the sky.

Like always, reality was a little different.

Our class was not in a field; it was in a parking lot next to a coffee shop (a coffee shop that sold kale smoothies, no less). And while the baby goats were definitely cute, I remembered that they were also farm animals. Farm animals that pooped a lot.

We weren’t warned about the poop.

Our yoga instructor started the class by having us rest in child’s pose — a pose where you sit on your knees and bow forward so your back is exposed to the sky — and the goat handler had the goats jump on our butts. Exciting? Very much so. Painful? A bit (their hooves are hard!), but still fun.

Unbeknownst to us, however, the goats were chock full of carrots from an earlier class. I glanced up to watch the cute little animals jumping across the front row and saw one goat’s sphincter open wide and drop tiny pellets of poop on the yogi in front of me. The poop pellets got everywhere; they gathered in the yogi’s shorts, plopped onto his neighbor’s yoga mat and rolled behind him right by my face.

Picture of baby goat on my back just before he poops all over the place.

Let me say that again: there was poop (poop!) near my face! I gagged as my veterinary sister’s one-word warning — PARASITES! — clanged through my head.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like poop — I’d rather eat a kale salad than eat poop, that’s how much I hate it. I spent the rest of class praying to the yoga gods that I would not be pooped upon. Luckily for me, the yoga gods heeded my prayer.

I’m not a monster — I still like goats a lot, I just don’t like them pooping on me. And maybe I should have known better — goats, like every other living thing, need to poop. And I’m fine with them pooping, as long as they are on a farm and I am several feet away and wearing covered shoes. Does that make me uncool and untrendy? Great! I don’t care. I’m keeping my yoga goat-free from now on.

Namaste.