And [Jacob] became exceedingly wealthy, and he had prolific animals, and maidservants and manservants, and camels and donkeys.
I count myself wealthy by the number of animals
I have in my house. At last count, it’s three cats and
three humans. That sounds equal, as in one cat for
every human, but really, I’m the only one who gets to
use the cats. (Their choice and I’m fine with it.)
There was a time once when there were nine cats
(plus the three humans) but that was short-lived
after one of the outside cats started making more
and we thought it would be in everybody’s best interest
to bring them inside, feed them, and give them away.
But for these almost two months we were the richest people
in Van Nuys, again assuming you accept cats as currency.
I’d tell you about the lizards we had but there’s only
so much room on the page.
Jacob, who, according to the musical and the original text
was also known as Israel, became rich with goats
(and camels and donkeys.) This had something to do
with stripes and speckles. I’d like to leave that explanation
as a mystery for you to discover with your own reading.
I wonder how many goats it costs to buy a
pumpkin-spiced latte and do they take Goatcoin?
Our systems of currency seem so different now.
I can’t imagine anyone paying me in livestock, though
if I ever received a live chicken for writing a poem
I’d celebrate my wealth and maybe put in a jacuzzi.
Just be honest. Not like old Uncle Laban who started out
with all the goats and then ended up with none.
Equal goats for equal whatever you do for goats.
That’s always been my motto, at least since stanza one.
Let’s break the goat ceiling, together.
Thank you for reading.