“All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats”

— Matthew 25:32

 

The first time I saw a goat, it wasn’t actually an animal.

Instead, those horizontal, slitted pupils stared at me from a face I only knew as evil incarnate. My pastors didn’t put much focus into our religion’s oldest enemy, but whispers of him stained every cross and pew, choking a building meant to be full of light with a stifling kind of desperate fear. My paternal grandmother told me the most about him, clutching to me with trembling, arthritic fingers as she warned of revelation and rapture, of every twisted sin he so apparently loved.

I’ve long since left the church, and my main relationship with the devil now is usually at random; when I’m flipping through one of the tarot decks that would give the more christian members of my family a heart attack. He warns me of the shadow self, attachment, addiction, restriction, and loose sexuality, snarling with fiery breath into my downturned face, a warning and a promise. If I listen to him, the cards tell me, I’ll be chained to my vices forever.

Just like Nana said.

 

Funnily enough, goats became associated with the devil and evil incarnate through Baphomet, the goat headed deity the Knights Templar were apparently accused of worshiping. There are a few differences between them and our modern, more satanic example, the exposed breasts being the most notable, but there are far more similarities. The pentagram carved into the forehead, the large black wings, the snake and flames imagery, and so on.

Baphomet became a symbol of the occult after that, primarily in the nineteenth century. And then christianity stepped in, did what it was known for, and absorbed the pagan ideals until only a shadow of them was left. I wonder sometimes what they think of it all: a god so far removed from its original context, we’ve lost sight of its meaning completely.

 

The first time I met a real goat was at the Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium, in my hometown of Tacoma, Washington. They lived under a permanent circus tent, with high red draped walls, at the usual end of our loop, and were the only animals there at the time that you could touch. I gave my parents wide, pleading eyes until they dropped a collection of quarters into my eager palms, which I then used on a machine that handedly provided pellets for the creatures to eat.

I was a little afraid of them biting at my outstretched fingers, but their teeth never caught on my skin once. They just crowded around me and every other delighted child, bleating in wild choruses, thick bristling fur scratching a soothing, wild rhythm.

Of all the changed enclosures, I think I miss them the most.

 

Goats hold quite a bit of symbolism outside of christianity as well. I grew up with Narnia and Percy Jackson, and hooves and horns became as much a sign of satyrs as they did demons. They are half human from the waist up, goat legged from the waist down, and acted just as you might expect a goat with human tendencies would. They got drunk, played music, had wild sex, and ate everything in sight.

They’re seen more often than not as followers of Pan, the lesser god of the wild who shares their likeness, or Dionysus, the olympian god of wine, revelry, and madness. He’s my favorite of the Greek gods, as of recently.

Dionysus, also occasionally known as Zagreus, god of rebirth, is as close to chaos incarnate as you can get without having it as a name. He’s often depicted in women’s clothing, saved from Hera’s madness by it, and is worshiped by those with no desire to follow societal expectations. He’s also, unexpectedly, one of only two olympian gods who is known for having never taken any lovers outside of his wife, Ariadne.

It’s part of why I love him so much: he represents everything twisted and macabre, sinful and luxurious, and he’s still kinder than those who pretend to be above him.

 

I watched a lot of animal documentaries as a kid, and still do if me and one of my parents are bored enough. I was glued to the screen every time one was on, watching the deadliest creatures on earth eat each other alive, and memorizing horrific facts to share with my more squeamish friends and family. Most of them were about snakes, an animal I love and an allegory that’s just as obvious as the goat, but I really enjoyed the ones involving bigger creatures, like lions and wildebeests.

On one such occasion, probably during high school, I stumbled upon a video of a snow leopard in pursuit of a wild goat. I clicked on it, letting the tension start to still my fidgeting muscles as he stalked his new prey, the kid only just beginning to sense the danger it was in.

When the chase finally began, I didn’t take a full breath until it finished. I’m not even sure I blinked.

They ran across a near vertical surface, finding instantaneous foot holds in a cliff face that I could barely comprehend. Gravity was a mere suggestion to them, hooves and paws the barest hints of anchors to the uncaring ground, practically flying across the mountainside. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but there it was, unfolding in front of my eyes; an impossible race, the competitors so much farther from human than I’d ever realized before.

The goat survived, in the end. The leopard fell to its death. I’m sure there’s symbolism in that, but I don’t really care to unearth it.

 

I’ve only done a handful of readings in my lifetime, breaking out one of my tarot decks only for reference nowadays. But in the past few years, I’ve learned a lot more about each of the arcana than ever before: their strengths and weaknesses, their own secret contradictions. For example, when you pull cards, and one comes out facing away from you instead, the meaning of it reverses, prophesying its opposite. The Devil card, when preaching upside down, refers to releasing limiting beliefs, exploring dark thoughts, and detachment.

When I look at it, I think of who I am now: a person tethered only by the loosest of threads, fluid as wine, and hungering for more. I am not a sheep, waiting dutifully to be corralled into an order I do not understand, and no amount of fire or threats will change that.

I’m a lot like my nana, with a craving for freedom and art and nature we’ll never be able to stifle, but we have very different muses. Her sin is my worship. Her blasphemy is my devotion. Her sheep is my goat. Her god is my devil.

Why would I follow her earthly rules, when my cloven feet feel like they’re so rarely touching the ground?