“Oh my god, my goat looks just like Henry,” I blurt out to my friends.
Lola laughs. “It’s just because you’re in love. You’re seeing him everywhere you look.”
“Be a rock for your goat,” Flower says, bending like Gumby into another impossible pose.
As we mimic Flower’s movements, I glance at the rock Henry proposed with. It all happened so fast.
He told me he’d never met anyone like me before, and that he knew it was sudden, but he couldn’t stand living another day without me being his wife.
He said, “We don’t know each other that well, but isn’t that the adventure of it all? Getting to know someone as you grow old together? Isn’t that what dreams are made of?”
No one had ever said anything like that to me before. I nearly died of swoon fever (It’s a real condition, look it up) when he put the two-carat princess cut ring on my finger and told me his five-year plan.
He said, “Marriage. Bang. Kids. Bang. Everything will fall into place with the perfect woman by my side. Then, I’ll make partner. Bang.’’
Me. The perfect woman.
We went home that night and made passionate love. Well, that’s what should have happened, but Henry had had a bit too much champagne celebrating and passed out before any penetration took place. But, it was still a perfect night.
“This goat is infatuated with my left boob,” Lola says, bringing me back to reality.
I pop open my eyes and try not to laugh as Lola attempts to keep a crab pose steady as her baby goat gnaws at her tank top. That’s much more action than I’m seeing from Henry. Said the men at his firm respected values so we should wait until we’re married. But, it’s ok. I kind of like the idea of no sex until marriage. It’s old-fashioned and romantic. Lola agrees it’s very romantic. Poppi, on the other hand, said she thought maybe Henry was gay.
He’s not gay.
He’s been around all my bases, many times. He just hasn’t slid into home yet.
“He thinks you’re his mother,” Poppi says, with a grin.
And then it’s like everything takes a turn for the worse. Poppi’s wandering goat tries to mount Flower, and it’s seriously like goats gone wild in here.
“Ok, I think we need to regroup,” Flower says.
I stop posing and Peter saunters close to nibble my palm. And then the unimaginable happens, he pretty much tries to eat my fingers and when I free my hand, my engagement ring stays behind.
Peter swallows it.
“No,” I squeal. “My goat ate my ring.”
I can’t believe this is happening. Panic ensues for the next five minutes as Flower checks inside his mouth to no avail. I think it goes without saying we don’t stay for the remainder of the class, but before we leave, I’m assured by the owner of the goats that we just have to wait a few days before I can get my ring back. Yes, you guessed it. I have to wait for a goat to poop out my engagement ring. I hope this isn’t an omen as to how my marriage will go.
“Well, I think we can cross goat yoga off the list,” I say to Lola as we leave the studio.
With sympathetic blue eyes, Lola loosens the bun atop her head and blonde hair falls down in waves. “I’m sorry about your ring.”
“It‘ll be ok,” I assure her, and myself. “This too shall pass.” Quite literally. “I have to go and run some errands for Georgia’s wedding tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted about Peter.”
We say our goodbyes and before I pull away, my phone buzzes with a text from Mom.
“Marsha and your Aunt Carol are coming by for lunch tomorrow. Can you make it? They’d love to see your beautiful ring.”
“Sorry,” I type back, sparing her the details of my missing ring. “I have a dog wedding tomorrow.”
“Dog wedding? You’re not grooming any more at Dog Spaw?”
For the record, I’m not just a dog groomer. Poppi and I opened the spa, and it caters to dogs and their humans too.
“Weddings are a new addition,” I reply. And pretty genius, if I do say so myself. It made sense that I give all these dog lovers something no one else can—dog weddings. I already pamper them at my doggy spa, so why not go a step further? Sounds crazy, but there’s a demand. It might be a little out there, but who am I to judge? I just sat through goat yoga.
“Speaking of weddings. Marsha’s having roaming peacocks.” She sends a picture of an elegant peacock standing next to a white tent. “Should you check into swans? Maybe penguins?”
She sends a rapid succession of pictures to bolster her suggestion.
“No, Mom.”
The wedding is already mapped out in my head. Every girl has fantasized about their dream wedding since they were young, and I am no exception to this rule. I want it to be on the beach. (You can’t be from Florida and not want a beach wedding.) The turtle sanctuary near Jupiter Beach, to be exact. There’s a tunnel that leads from the parking lot to the sand, and yes, I want to walk out of the tunnel like a princess walking down the aisle.