goats are from venus

Remember my cat? Heisenburg? The one whose name switches between 'berg' and 'burg' depending on how Teutonic he's feeling? The invisible one?

Yes, well. My cat has fallen in love with...

...okay, wait.

Let me preface by saying that I am not, by any means, against interspecies relationships. If a pair of consenting, mature animals want to get together in the bonds of -- well, lust, since I'm rather dubious Heisenberg is capable of anything quite so permanent as actual love -- I will be the last person to oppose it. What business is it of mine if a platypus falls hard and fast for an Emperor penguin, or if a duck abruptly develops Feelings for a blue-ribbon Holstein show cow?

I do, however, draw the line at bringing that sort of depravity home to live in my apartment. Out of sight, out of mind, I say.

Really.

So. Anyway, Heisenberg has fallen in love.

With a goat.

He has brought her home to live with us.

(A goat.)

The goat is called Schroedinger, of all the ridiculous names, and is -- despite the name -- a female. A feminist at that, though a somewhat lackadaisical one; from the brief interactions I have had with her, I have found that she pays lip service to the concept of sexual equality, but in reality prefers sexual superiority. Namely, hers.

That this does not seem to disturb Heisenberg is, I think, less a sign of his liberalism as it is an indication that he's really more interested in Schroedinger's body. Evenings of late have been spent in deep discomfort as Schroedinger lazily watches television, and Heisenberg licks her. I do Heisenberg the benefit of the doubt when I assure you all that it is purely in a grooming capacity.

In all fairness, she is a very attractive goat, insofar as goats go; as a roommate, she is about as obtrusive as Heisenberg: that is to say, not very. She does seem to have picked up some of Heisenberg's more irritating mannerisms, such as materializing without warning underfoot when one is attempting to make dinner or talk to one's mother. "Sorry Mom, just stepped on the goat," makes for confusing non sequiturs in the middle of a talk about dietary fiber and bowel movements.

On top of this, she has taken to chewing on my toothbrush to help her "relieve stress," though what a goat living off the bounty of her boyfriend's owners has to stress about is anybody's guess. As if this is not irritating enough, she disapproves of birth control. My birth control.

It has become a common occurance for me to be standing in the shower, and catch a flicker of movement through the glass -- something small and white whisking into the bathroom, then whisking out. I emerge from the shower to find that the little pink packet of my birth control pills has disappeared.

Considering the small hoof prints that inevitably dot the bathroom floor, this is not a mystery that requires the skills of a crack forensics team.

This is the sort of thing that begins to make a roommate unwelcome. Schroedinger is remarkably creative when it comes to finding places to hide my medication. As Heisenberg is equally adept at finding these places, this has not become a significant problem yet. It's unusual being on the same side as Heisenberg, who is far more likely to thwart any high-minded or productive endeavor I embark on, purely on the theory that it is his responsibility to spread malice and misery to all.

In point of fact, my initial attempts to convince the damn cat to help me locate my pills were unsuccessful, to say the least. It was the reminder that birth control pills perform, among other things, a certain limiting factor on my -- our -- contribution to the human gene pool that persuaded him. He has been an avid and determined assistant ever since.

I do not find this flattering.

At this point, the only saving grace of having a goat as a roommate is that our household's collective garbage output has decreased tremendously. She is not a picky eater: plastic, styrofoam, old leftovers, these are all one and the same to her. Beyond the necessities of shelter and heat, which we use anyway, and her unfathomable addiction to the Jerry Springer show, she has otherwise not placed significant demands on us. Since the weather has been cool of late, she has even taken it upon herself to monitor our body temperatures. Early in their relationship, Heisenberg -- from who knows what malevolent prompting -- convinced her that humans will die if their bodies drop below 98.5 degrees.

There have been several disconcerting nights when I've woken up to find Schroedinger mucking about with our covers, a rectal thermometer clutched between her teeth. I find her consideration touching. I find its outlet of expression unnerving.

I don't think we can continue like this.