THE GOAT WHO STOLE CHRISTMAS

    One of my brother-in-laws called the other day from his home in Canada. He wanted to let me know that my Christmas present was in the mail.
    I wasn’t excited. Every year it’s the same thing—wool mittens, or furry slippers, or a knit cap. I’ve tried to tell him not every place is as cold as Canada in the winter, but his ears were probably frozen shut.
   "No mittens this year," he said excitedly. "Instead, we bought you a goat."
   Great. Now he expects me to make my own mittens out of goat hair. Canadians may be resourceful, but I’m not, and I told him so.
   "First of all, you’re thinking about lambs, not goats," he replied. "And secondly, the goat is not for you, it’s your gift to a family in the African country of Sierra Leone."
   I didn’t know much about Sierra Leone other than it seemed like a strange name for an African country. It sounded more like a ski resort. I worried that my brother-in-law might be sending mittens along with my goat. I told him that would be inappropriate.
   He was done with the mittens reference. "We’ve adopted a village in Sierra Leone, and instead of buying you some Christmas present you don’t need, we’re taking the $50 we would have spent on you and we’re buying a goat in your name, which will help feed one of the families in the village."
   I was impressed. First of all, I never knew he spent so much on those worthless mittens. Secondly, I couldn’t think of a more gratifying Christmas present than having my own goat feed an impoverished family.
   "Do I get to name it?" I asked.
   "No. But I might be able to get you a picture if you really want one. The organization is called Free the Children. You should check it out."
   I thanked him again for my goat, hung up, and checked out the Freethechildren.com website. Not surprisingly, there were plenty of goats still available for sale, and I had just the customers in mind.
   "What do you mean you’re buying me a goat for Christmas?" cried my wife when I broke the news to her at the dinner table that night. "I don’t want a stinking goat."
   I looked across at the two teenage boys wolfing down their meal. "Don’t laugh," I said to the boys. "You’re getting one, too. And so are your sisters. Goats for everyone."
   One of the boys looked up, his mouth full of noodles. "What does goat taste like," he mumbled.
   "You’re not going to eat it, you knucklehead. The milk from the goat is going to help feed a poor family in Africa. And you don’t need any more Christmas presents for yourself."
   They both shrugged, knowing it was true. My wife had to almost beg them to come up with something they wanted, let alone needed, for Christmas. There wasn’t a lot on their "wish list," and that’s not necessarily a good thing.
   The girls, who are in their 20’s, were no different. They certainly appreciate whatever they get, but it’s not as though they’ll be screaming with delight on Christmas morning.
    As for my wife, her parents carelessly and absent-mindedly conceived her in March, meaning her birthday is in December, 11 days before Christmas. In other words, I just gave her a present last week, and enough is enough. At least I was smart enough to be born in June.
   "It’s too late," said my wife. "I’ve already bought the kids most of their Christmas presents for this year."
   In the corner of my eye, I saw the boys do a little fist-pump. "I’m not suggesting we forego Christmas entirely," I replied. "I’m just suggesting we sacrifice a few things so we can buy everyone their own goat and give them to families in Africa."
    No one could argue that one. It was agreed we would buy enough goats for each of us to give to a family in Sierra Leone.
    Love filled the room. The teenage boys shrugged and went off to play a video game. The girls were never there. That left just me and my wife.
   My heart was warm. I thought about buying her a second goat, but decided against it. Maybe if her birthday wasn’t in December.