What Do Goats Think About Barnyard Yoga?
Recently I read an article in a Seattle newspaper about doing yoga with goats. The profile of one goat in an accompanying photo caught my eye. There was something familiar and disturbing about his posture. In the picture the yoga practitioners kneel on all fours in the tabletop pose with big smiles. One yogi has moved into the downward dog pose, an inverted “V” with hands and feet on the ground while the rump pushes high into the air. The goat in question stands perched on his hind feet above the yogi with his head held high, neck arching back. His lip curls to expose his teeth. The buck’s name is Seamus. He’s the oldest — and as the author notes — the “naughtiest” of the goats. As a biologist, the goat’s behavior compelled me to do some research on the topic of goats and yoga.
There are a lot of weird forms of yoga — including paddleboard yoga, yoga on horseback, and naked yoga. But goat yoga takes the cake. Goat yoga is a full-blown craze in California. I watched some news videos featuring goat yoga. In one interview a suntanned blonde smiles broadly as she describes how a goat peed on her. Her yoga mat soaked it up like a sponge. Or have you ever had a goat bleat in your ear? One promotional video shows a goat in the background perched on a man’s back while munching on his expensive yoga hoodie. Many videos feature cute baby goats. I stopped viewing the videos when one reporter closed his segment with “baamaste.”
Although it seems like a California thing, goat yoga started in Albany, Oregon, which is just across the hills from Antelope where Bhagwan and the Rajneeshees were headquartered. Yes, the same folks that poisoned the town cafe’s salad bar with E. coli the night before elections to keep the townspeople from voting so the Bhagwan’s candidates would win. Not that there’s any relation, but the proximity makes you think twice about the atmosphere in central Oregon. The fad started out as goat therapy, then someone suggested doing yoga in the barn — and bingo — goat yoga happened. The inventor said that at one point she had a waitlist of 2400 people wanting to do yoga with goats.
Back to the behavior of Seamus. I recognized from the picture that Seamus was exhibiting a Flehman response. This happens when the male goat catches scent of something interesting, particularly a female goat. It’s an involuntary reflex — a brain stutter. In riposte to whatever signal the female is putting out, the male goat excretes a strong smelling hormone from the hairs on his head. He spreads it around by nuzzling objects of his affection. The perfume is known as eau de goat and females of the species find it appealing.
The physical aspect of the Flehman response closes off the nasal passage, while opening a pair of ducts in the roof of the mouth leading to an organ specifically designed for pheromone reception. The Vomero-nasal organ operates an express train direct to the amygdala deep in the brain. Activation of the amygdala triggers an emotional response leading to the male goat’s behavior. (The next time you are feeling amorous, try this on your partner — arch your neck back, curl your lips to buck out your front teeth, and wag your tongue. Let me know how that works out for you.) Scientists have discovered that removing the olfactory bulb (a process called — yes, you guessed it — a bulbectomy) eliminates the Flehman response, but the male goat gets depressed as a result.
Lots of animals display the Flehman response, including moose, lions, giraffes, donkeys, and yaks. Even rhinos. As far as I know, nobody’s doing yoga with rhinos. Male horses have a similar Flehman response to the goat. The expression looks like the horse has a big smile on his face. The famous Mr. Ed, the talking horse on television, did it all the time. It’s a well-known that a female horse was hidden just out of camera range to keep Ed smiling.
Another notable fact I learned about billygoats is their virility and willingness to perform. They are pretty randy fellows. A good male can copulate upwards of 15 times a day. After all, they are male goats and they have sex on their minds — that and food — but that’s about it given that their brain is the size of a twinkie.
I don’t want to suggest that the goat-yoga practitioners have weird ideas or immoral behaviors — although it’s reported that some evangelical faithful believe the practice of yoga is inspired by Satan. In my opinion, the yogis most likely are just naïve about the barnyard behavior of goats. Perhaps the owners of Seamus might have thought better of Seamus’s billygoat behavior and left him at home.
To be truthful, the article about goat yoga warns, “you might get pooped or peed on.” From my perspective — no thanks. I have a hard enough time in yoga class if I catch a whiff of body odor from the old fellow next to me. But pooped on? I don’t think so. To say nothing of the nuzzling with eau de goat. The article goes on to say that you should let the goat trainer know if you don’t want the 50-pound Seamus to jump on you. If I found myself in a goat-yoga class, about here is where I thrust my hand in the air and wave it like an overachieving fifth grader.
While she cat-cowed in the tabletop pose, the author of the piece revealed, “I secretly hoped Seamus would jump on me.” Really? Big Seamus with cloven hooves? To him the discs in your spinal column are footholds. The writer got her wish when she moved into the downward dog (the rump-up pose again). “Seamus put two hooves on my back. I was slightly relieved he didn’t climb all the way up.” I kid you not, these are actual quotes.
“Goat yoga can get kind of wild,” says Seamus’s owner matter of factly. One yoga studio in New Jersey said that its yoga practice with adult goats is “at your own risk.” By my reckoning I guess so. For me yoga is wild and risky when I contort into the flying frog pose, but yoga with goats takes it to another level. Truthfully, we don’t really know what Seamus, or other goats, thinks about yoga, but it’s probably a safe bet his mind isn’t on savasana.
