We pay to enter the dirty pen. We buy small bags of feed to feed the well-fed animals. We are guests in their home, our feet on their sawdust floor. We pretend not to notice the stench. Theirs is a predictable life. Better, I guess, than the slaughter, is the many-handed god. Me? I’m going to leave here, eat a body that was once untouched, and fed, then gutted and delivered to my table. Afterwards, I’ll wash off what of this I can. If I dream it will be of the smallest goat, who despite her job, flinched from most of the hands. Though she let me touch her, she would not eat from my palm. In my dream, she’ll die of old age and not boredom.