I Only Wanted to Be a Mountain Goat

            We went to the zoo on Thursday. I had thought about going on Wednesday, but a combination of my nap running a bit long and severe weather kept us home. One pinkie-promise later, we were up early and out the door. The one caveat was that we had to be home for an appointment at one o’clock.

            The other caveat was that this was a trip to the zoo to pad out my Workweek Hustle stats. It was mostly business with the occasional stop to look at the animals and then keep moving. There were a few protests, but for the most part, our zoo adventure was uneventful. Until the tigers.

            We rounded the corner in the far end of the Eurasia section, anticipating the striped felines snoozing in their enclosure. What greeted us was what felt like hundreds of people loitering about, listening to a zookeeper explain the nuances of feeding a hungry tiger. At the far end of the enclosure was said hungry tiger and a second lady zookeeper wearing rubber gloves holding a bucket and tongs.

            A volunteer was chosen from the crowd to be the tiger. An eager little boy stepped up to the challenge. The lecturer zookeeper dressed him in a cartoonish tiger skin tunic and he gave a shy roar. Zookeeper guy then explained how they had clicker trained the tigers to accept a food reward. Many clicks were made and plastic food stuff was passed over to the child in the tunic to demonstrate his point. Then he demonstrated a bridge technique where the tiger is booped on the nose with a long stick. Demonstration ensued.

            We climbed to the top of the rocky amphitheatre to watch the presentation. My little one wriggled to the front of the crowd on the top tier. She was transfixed on the little boy in the tiger outfit.

            “I want to be a mountain goat.”

            “Just watch what they’re going to do, they’re going to feed the tiger.” She turned back to the nose booping. “Would you like to go down to that side and get a better look at the tiger?”

            “Okay!”

            I’ll begin by saying what happened next was obviously my fault for a plethora of reasons. First, I wasn’t holding her hand. Second, I wasn’t firm in keeping her next to me at all times. Third, I am not the most graceful when navigating giant rocks on the downhill route.

As I began to pick my way past apathetic preteens with no sense of personal space or ability to keep their backpacks off the path (and their angry mothers shouting what I was thinking), my little sweetheart was booking it down the rocky embankment in a manner that I questioned whether she was mine. Amazed that I reached the bottom without causing a commotion, I looked around. I expected to see my child waiting patiently for me at the bottom of the rocks. No sign of her. Shit.

I walked around to the front of the crowd. I was looking low. She was wearing an eclectic blend of colours and a bright red hat. She should have been easy to spot. Then I heard it. A voice amplified by a microphone.

“No sweetie, we aren’t looking at other animals today, just tigers.” Fuck. I assertively moved to the front of the crowd to the right of the tiger. I’m sure there were irritated people but this was a bit of an emergency. The assault to my eyeballs was one part ridiculous and one-part embarrassment. Standing front and centre was my little Zoo Tot. The crowd was nonplussed. I was mortified. A volunteer moved forward to collect my now very downtrodden child. The volunteer was talking to her in low tones, probably asking which camp she was part of due to the hat. My kid’s chin was on her chest in obvious extreme disappointment.

“Yeah, she’s mine.” I said over the heads of the children in the front row. The volunteer’s head snapped up. She had a look of distain; judgement. Yep, I fucking lost my kid at the zoo. That’s NEVER happened to anyone else. She gently prodded my child toward me and we promptly left the area lest we became “the little girl who interrupted the tiger feeding and her idiot mom who can’t keep track of her.” A stern lecture ensued since this is not the first time she has wandered off and stolen the show. There was the dancing incident of 2016 (not my fault).

The lesson: Buy a fucking leash.

Later, when we were recounting this incident to Wade, he asked her why. Her response was given with the conviction of a very stubborn, moderately proud, nearly five-year-old, “I only wanted to be a mountain goat.” Well played, child. Well played.