The Great Goat Yoga Disaster

Ravi had never heard of “goat yoga” until his cousin Ayesha sent him a last-minute invite with the message:

"It’s like normal yoga…but with goats. Trust me 😄"

Ravi didn’t trust Ayesha. She once convinced him that “bubble tea” was just soup with frog eggs. But it had been a dull week, and he figured, How bad could it be? Stretch a little, pat a goat, post a selfie—done.

He was wrong. Very wrong.

The yoga farm was an hour outside the city, surrounded by suspiciously cheerful people in leggings and wide-brimmed hats. Ravi felt out of place in his track pants and “I Paused My Game for This” t-shirt. He considered backing out until he saw the goats—tiny, fluffy things with adorable faces. One even wore a bowtie.

“See?” Ayesha grinned, rolling out her yoga mat. “This will be fun.”

The instructor, a man with a man-bun named Sage (of course), welcomed the group with a long, peaceful "Ommm." The goats bleated back, which everyone found charming. Ravi tried not to laugh. He didn’t want to be that guy.

The session began with simple poses—Downward Dog, Cat-Cow, the classics. The goats wandered among the mats, hopping gently onto people’s backs. Everyone cooed with delight.

Then it was Ravi’s turn.

As he attempted a shaky Warrior II, a goat—clearly the size of a small washing machine—leapt onto him like a mountain climber scaling Everest. Ravi’s arms flailed. His legs gave out. He collapsed with a yelp that sounded like a squeaky toy being murdered.

The goat stood triumphantly on his back.

The instructor clapped. “Yes! Ravi is fully embracing the moment!”

Ravi whimpered.

Things escalated when another goat took a particular interest in Ravi’s hair, chewing it like gourmet hay. A third began eating his yoga mat. The instructor insisted this was “a sign of spiritual connection.”

Meanwhile, Ayesha was crying with laughter on the next mat, attempting to film him while upside down.

“Get it off!” Ravi gasped as the goat licked his ear. “Why is it licking me?!”

“Love and light, Ravi,” Sage said serenely. “Let it flow through you.”

The class ended with “goat cuddles,” where everyone lay in Shavasana pose while goats gently napped beside them. One goat curled up next to Ayesha like a puppy. Another tried to climb into Ravi’s hoodie and got stuck halfway, its tiny hooves flailing out like a demon being exorcised.

“Just breathe,” Sage whispered.

“I can’t. There’s a goat in my shirt.”

As they left the farm, Ravi’s shirt was stretched beyond recognition, and his hair looked like he had styled it with buttered toast. Ayesha couldn’t stop replaying the footage of him being mounted by a goat named Yogurt.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever seen,” she said between giggles.

Ravi wiped goat drool off his cheek. “Next time you say ‘trust me,’ I’m filing a restraining order.”

She grinned. “But you feel centered, don’t you?”

He looked back at the goats, now peacefully munching on hay, and sighed. “Centered on the idea that goats are agents of chaos? Yes.”

A week later, Ravi became an unexpected viral sensation. The video of his goat yoga disaster hit 2 million views on TikTok, with the caption:

“Inner peace? More like inner panic.”

The comments ranged from:

“This man is living my worst nightmare 😭”

to

“Goat = therapist. Ravi = not ready.”

A yoga company even offered him free classes—goat-free, of course.

Ravi declined. He now practices yoga alone, in the safety of his living room, far from goats, influencers, and anything that bleats.

But every now and then, he hears a distant “baaa” in a video and flinches—just a little.