I remember when I was a little girl and we would go visit my father’s village, I had one goal that I woke up for: playing with baby goats. I’d chase them on unsure legs on fields that my feet weren’t used to. Capturing them was a victorious feelings and I’d cuddle the cuteness out of the kids. On occasion a protective mother-goat would see me clutching her child with a death grip and she’d charge at me, but I, in my own child-mind would resolve to be a hero and protect the baby goat stuck in my arms. (It never occurred to me that I was something to be protected from.) Anyways, my older cousin would have to yell and while I refused to run (or let go of the baby) he’d have to come loosen my grip, pick me up, and run away with me while I struggled, unhappy to have left the baby goat behind.
The adventure would repeat itself the following day.
Somehow, my love for baby goats hasn’t died, but now, along with cuddling them, I photograph the cuteness to drool over when I’m back in the city and there are no goats for me to run after.