Trauma Stories Wanted


In order to better understand the far-reaching consequences of Childhood Goat Trauma, we at the CGTF would like to invite you to tell us about your personal trauma. Please drop an email to [email protected] with a description of the event and any effects the Goat Trauma has had on your life, such as these emails we received in the past couple weeks.


From: [email protected]
Date: Thu, 29 Apr 2004 14:25:36 EDT
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: Ashamed in the Midwest

I'm to ashamed to tell you what actually happened. But I'll try. It involved a trip to my uncle's farm where among other animals, he also raised goats. I should explain to you that my uncle was a different kind of person. One night, after taking a bath, I couldn't find my clothes. My uncle said they had been washed and were drying in the goat barn, which seemed as weird then as it sounds now. However, being young and naive, I ran to the goat barn, expecting to get my clothes. Instead, I was confronted by a circle of men. They wore dead goat heads and nothing else. That's how I knew they were men.  They were chanting something low and rhythmic, I couldn't understand it at first. After a minute or so, I started to recognize the chant. "Goat boy, goat boy, time to be the goats toy" the chanted in unison growing louder and louder. I was too scared to move. After my eyes started to adjust to the dim lite, I could see that my clothes were there. However, the goats were wearing them. My first thought was boy, are they ever gonna stink. Actually, that was my second thought. My first thought involved a strong desire to see my mom. Before I could dwell on it, the men started to slowly move around in the circle, half dancing, half duck walking. It was about this time they led a goat into the center of the circle, next to me. I had never seen this goat before, he was huge. He had, what I now know today was, a huge erection. At that age I just thought he had another leg hanging down. "goat boy, goat boy, time to be the goats toy".  I thing you can guess what happened next. WRONG! I was small, naked and scared shitless, but I wasn't about to become this goats bitch. Or whatever a female goat is called. I saw that the only light was coming from a kerosene lantern hanging near the door. I broke for the door and made it easier than I thought I would. This was due to the fact that the goat headed men were hypnotized by their own chanting and thoughts, no doubt, of what was about to transpire. When I got to the door I grabbed the lantern and threw it in to a pile of hay, where it instantly exploded into flames. I ran out the barn door and slammed it shut. Then I threw down the 2 by 4 used to lock the door from the outside. There wasn't another exit. Soon the screams and the bleating started. They begged me to unlock the door but it fell on deaf ears. I did mention I was deaf didn't I. I lip read so that is why I was able to tell what they were chanting. I also just assumed they were screaming and the goats were bleating. I didn't care. I was happy and rich to boot. You see, I was my weird uncle's only heir and he was loaded. Besides, wasn't he about ready to let some goat mount me like a rented stud and put his leg, er, thing into my rectum? No, he wasn't. You see my weird uncle was a great practical joker I later found out. The whole thing was a set up to freak me out. Well, I have to live with those imagined screams and bleats for the rest of my life. The only consolation is that I am filthy rich. So what if I burned those fellas like a lesbian burns her bra. Still, sometimes at night, when I'm sleeping, I see those guys and I can lip read them, goat boy, goat boy, time to be the goats toy. Goat boy, goat boy.......  

From: [email protected]
Date: Fri Apr 30, 2004 2:32:18 PM US/Eastern
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: what goats have reduced me to

I used to have a mansion and a rolls-royce. But due to goat trauma and my subsequent inability to hold down a steady job, I'm reduced to a mud and corrugated metal hovel. At least my goats are equally as malnurished as I.

From: [email protected]
Date: Sat, 1 May 2004 01:24:53 -0400
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: Two traumas in one

I am a 43-year-old man, and this is the first time that I have publicly shared my goat trauma story.  I grew up in Darien, Connecticut during the '60s and '70s, and at that time there was a delightful, rustic restaurant/shopping center/amusement park/petting zoo by the name of Old MacDonald's Farm.  It was, however, home to a particularly aggressive and ornery "capra hircus".  One day, I was at the zoo with my mother, and she bought for me a quarter's worth of those petting-zoo pellets to feed the bovids.  In a feeding frenzy, the mad goat butted me in the testicles.  I doubled over in pain, and to make matters worse, my mother just laughed.  It was two traumas for the price of one.  I shall never forget, and never forgive--the goat or my mother.

From: [email protected]
Date: Sun May 2, 2004 8:13:16 AM US/Eastern
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: Childhood Goat Trauma

A man who crossed over the Cumberland Gap into Tennessee during the late 1700's, described how he was then of an age which required him to follow behind the party, driving livestock over the almost insurmoutable mountain pass. The goats, which might have served as an inspiration and example to others, instead did everything they could to interfere with westward migration. They would bound up the mountain, then the Billy would turn, and bolt back down the mountain, butting his young herder off his feet and off the trail! The poor man, a lifetime later, described how, thanks to the goats, he'd crossed the Cumberland Gap mostly on his backside, and being subjected to much bruising and incessant ridicule.

People who scoff at those suffering from goat-induced post traumatic stress syndrome, should remember how many young men risked their lives, and lost their dignity, preventing goats from interfering with the manifest destiny of our nation.

From: [email protected]
Date: Sun, 02 May 2004 18:16:43 -0400
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: Childhood Goat Trauma

hello, i have seen this wonderful site and i would like to help others avoid the horrible problems that come when going to petting zoos
my story begins when i was 8 years of age...around the time of disney's huge "Mighty Ducks" enterprise, i had all things mighty ducks and still do...and that when it all went wrong...
    My home town of Calgary is known for its stampedes, and stampede breakfasts, and petting zoos, (as you will see this will all come together quickly)
So i'm 8, loving the mighty ducks, and the stampedes and the breakfasts, and the petting zoos UNTIL... the day i wore my favorite ducks hat, i loved that hat, i wore it EVERYWHERE, the brim even broke i wore it so much but it would be able to see the next day...
    the moblie petting zoo came to our community to entertain the little kids at our "annual stampede breakfast"... i was there, and i remeber it like it was yesterday...
I was bending over petting a sheep at the (cause they are much cuter that goats) and as i was down on my knees the goat behind me lifted my hat off my head...AND ATE IT!!! i jumped up screaming "HEY! HEY! give that back!" i jumped at the goat grabbing for the hat half-way down his throat, grabbing, ripping, and screaming wasn't enough for an 8 year old girl to free her beloved hat...and he sallowed it, my lovely hat was gone, never to return...well it would return to this world but i doubt i would wear it again...i looked at my enemy and i could see his eyes, they were speaking to me "ha ha ha, i ate your hat, i'm a goat, i'm gonna crap it out, and theres nothing you can do" ....those imagined words still burn through my mind today...i will see my hat again in heaven, and that goat will burn in hell for what he did, burn i tell you BURN!!!
 in closing i would like to state that goats have hurt us all. directly, and indirectly and i am thankful that i could do my part to prevent anymore goat related pain

From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, 3 May 2004 13:33:16 -0400
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: Goat's Cheese and Goat Trauma

I can't believe I have found an avenue to share my life-changing experience that involved goats.
I have been a long-time fan of goat's cheese.  French goat's cheese is my favourite, but local, Canadian goat's cheese is also quite good.  I was driving in the country one day and I saw a farm that had a sign up saying "Fresh Goat's Cheese", so I pulled in to pick some up.
The woman greeted me and sold me a pound that was quite fresh.  She actually pointed to the goat that supplied the milk and brought me over to pet it.  I went over and the goat sniffed me and then the bag that had her cheese in it.  All of a sudden, she went bonkers and started to attack me.  Hoof's flying and strange noises coming out of her was all I could distinguish while I lay helplessly on the ground.  Somehow I managed to get up, grab my cheese and flee in fear of my life.
I went home and just couldn't find the inner strength to eat her cheese.  To this day I still have irrational fears about eating anything with goat's cheese.  I was served a goat's cheese tart at a restaurant recently and I had to eat it with my back to the wall and the hair on the back of my neck standing.  Hopefully one day I will be able to overcome this and maybe this is the way I start.
Thank-you for providing an opportunity to express my inner-most thoughts and fears.

From: [email protected]
Date: Tue, 4 May 2004 08:09:25 -0700 (PDT)
To: trauma@goat-trauma

It was very sad for me the day that an innocent looking goat killed my pair of 4 year old rotweilers.  It was savage, unprovoked, and apparently done just for fun because he ate the hearts out of them. I still have nightmares 20 years later.

From: [email protected]
Date: Tue May 4, 2004 4:47:36 PM US/Eastern
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: My story

Last week a girl in my department had an office birthday. Someone brought in Cedar's Roasted Baba Ganouj and pita. By 4:00 p.m., the baba had gone to caca, but I was hungry so I took a bite. It tasted exactly like a petting zoo, and suddenly I went numb. It all came back to me - an incident at the Kansas City Renaissance Festival in '87.

I was eating a frozen chocolate covered cheesecake on a stick, walking by the Deck the Duke jousting game, and I spotted a pen of animals. The weathered wooden sign hanging from the shoddily-erected picket pen read "Wee Beasties." It was free, but food was a quarter. I dug deep into the pocket of my checkered Skidz skate pants, gorfed down my sweet dessert wedge, and shuffled inside. I handed the pellet wench two shiny coins, and she proffered two small scoops of tubular grass-green farmy foodstuffs. Hardly had I pivoted 10 degrees when I saw the herd clomping straight for me, kicking up a storm of poo and dust in their wake: disgruntled rams, gangly llamas, and a villainous mob of pissed-off black and blonde goats. The dwarves got to me first, butting at my weakening knees. I clenched the morsels tightly in my palm. "No WAY, bitches!" I thought. But nefarious glances askance from the tallest goat to his minions riled the midgets to move at me in a bony throng, attempting to clobber me down to horn-and-teeth level. They were going for the throat, I swear! I could feel their eyes on me, envisioned them chewing the feathered hair off my head, stomping my oversized red plastic Sally Jesse Raphael prescriptions frames.

Just then a fancy-pants pulled me out of the riot. "Hearken, bonny lass! Are you well? Have these gluttonous brutes done you in?" I freaked out. He was wearing white mime-y face paint, shirtcuffs and breeches, and that was even creepier than being eaten alive by a pack of famished, genetically-defective goats in Bonner Springs, Kansas.

Anyway, I've gotten through my life since the incident by repressing everything. That bite of briny baba brought back barbarous blocked-out baby goat attack memories that I know have been eating away at me like any of the various hollow-horned, bearded ruminant mammals of the genus Capra, originally of mountainous areas of the Old World, especially any of the domesticated forms of C. hircus, raised for wool, milk, and meat on that Saturday afternoon.

With the help of my saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, I can go on.

From: [email protected]
Date: Wed May 5, 2004 5:32:38 PM US/Eastern
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: help

Help! please I don't know how they found me but they got in the house and they are nawing through the door. Please you are the only one who can help me. Send the police they bit the telephone lines. they are her fjsdiasoi;afgao;dsf fhelpl mdjfsadfjsd help ee afdsfjdfj send

From: [email protected]
Date: Wed May 5, 2004 6:38:04 PM US/Eastern
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: trauma queen

I too have been the victim of childhood goat trauma. I thought I was the only one until I found your site. It has given me great comfort to know there are others.
It was a day just like any other, and my Grandpa thought it would be fun to go the petting zoo.
They gave me a handful of food and locked me in the cage with the ruthless things. Of course I was soon knocked down and without clothing. They were literally eating my shorts!
And the worst part was, my Grandpa thought the whole thing was great fun. He laughed until he cried.
By the time they let me out, I was naked and sobbing.
I am now 23 years old and it still haunts me. I watch for them around every corner. It's good to know that your site is also on the lookout.

Grateful in Missouri

From: [email protected]
Date: Thu May 6, 2004 5:03:17 AM US/Eastern
To: trauma@goat-trauma

I was recently attending a horse show, where my sixteen year old son was riding. He came first in the compitition, so, as you can expect, my wife Bernette and I were over the moon. However, there was an incident that put a severe downside on this joyous day. At the festival, they had decided to include a petting zoo. Now, my son is infactuated with animals, and went to pet some goats. Thu hungry little bastards ate the freakin' rosette! And now, thanks to them, my son Jimmy is scared to leave the house.

If you could provide any councelling sessions for him, we would be very greatful. My wife and I are prepared to pay any costs. We jsut want Jimmy to be able to go outside again.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

From: [email protected]
Date: Fri, 21 May 2004 12:07:04 -0500
To: trauma@goat-trauma
Subject: trauma

A number of years ago (42) my husband and I went to Ft. Worth to a convention and since I was still nursing our 2 month old daughter, we took her along.  We left her with a sitter when we went to the zoo and the first thing we encountered was the petting zoo.  You could buy bottles to feed the little goats, sheep, etc.  My husband was not interested in going into the pen but I was, along with several friends.  I could not get the little baby animals interested in the bottle I was holding but they were sure interested in ME.  At first I was confused and tried to get away from them.  Looking up, I realized that ALL the little babies were stalking me.  My husband and all our friends were laughing their heads off.  I finally got out of the pen and the rest of the trip my name became Jo-nanny.



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