Be still my bleating heart



Early every morning in front of our house in Saigon one can hear the heartfelt bleats of goats as they’re ushered down the street toward the neighborhood butcher. Sometimes there’s a whole herd trotting down the street followed by an urban shepherd ambling behind them in flip flops and waving a stick as motivation. Sometimes when they’re a wee resistant they’re led by hand. Either way they put up quite the ruckus.

Bleat-bleat. Bleat! BLEAT!


Oh, if only I could understand goat. I always wonder what they’re saying.

And do goats in Vietnam speak the same language as goats in America, do you think? Like, if they met could they speak fluently to each other or would they need an interpreter? I’m sorry. That’s just the way my mind works.

In this case I don’t think I need to speak fluent Viet goat to understand what this little dude was saying.


Yeah, I don’t really feel like walkin’ with you, man. I got plans for the morning that include napping and a shady tree.


No, seriously. I’ve heard bad things about what’s at the end of the street.


They say that those who go down there never come back. My cousin Murray went down there three weeks ago and we haven’t seen him since.


Really! I’m not kidding! That’s what they say! It’s bad juju down there, man! Bad!


Noooooooooo. I doooooonnnnnn’ttttt waaannnnnaaa goooooooo!



I’m seriously thinking about becoming a vegetarian.

Bleat. Bleat.


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