Goats in Snow!

Until you've made a snowman with two goats helping, you haven't really experienced the joy of winter! 

                                    (Emerson isn't too impressed by this rather strange creature...)

 

A Package Deal?

It seems like a bit of a design flaw - that animals who develop thick winter coats and who do not appear to mind the frigid weather that chills me to the bone - also will only drink warm water. When I first read this in a goat manual months ago, I scoffed - even my pampered house cats disdain the tepid water in their patterned ceramic bowl in favor of a cool drink from the tap or the near-frozen bowl outside. Surely those fluffy goats could drink refreshing cold water like any other beast.

Not so. Em and Ellie will sniff at the bowl but walk away thirsty before partaking of chilled water. Even my veterinarian recommended an electric water-warmer for the boys. Not having yet budgeted for this purchase, Emily and I take turns heating up water for the goats every three hours, then suiting up in coat, snowpants, boots, mittens etc and carrying it outside, where the goats eagerly ambush us and slurp it all up. Most times they'll also need fresh hay, they'll beg for attention, and of course there will be scooping...Also Elliot seems to have a worrisome skin condition which I needed to check and they had ripped apart an entire bale of straw and made a huge mess everywhere...So last night after about my hundreth trip outside in sub-zero temperatures I was just pulling off my boots when Emily ran into the kitchen.

"Mom!" she exclaimed, "Keep your coat on! Dad found something on craigslist and we want to go see them. It's only fifteen minutes away!"

I was actually re-lacing my boot with numb fingers before my brain kicked back on. My husband is usually trolling the internet for old cars or motorcycles - what exactly are we going to look at?

Turns out someone only a few miles away was advertising for sale "16 goats (a mix of does and bucks) and one llama" - all for a mere $2000.00 (or best offer). Yes Emily, they do look very cute, and yes, the llama looks so fluffy, and yes, someone else might snatch them all up if we don't get there first - ARE YOU CRAZY???

Here's my idea. Emily is pretty good with computers. Maybe she can hack into the website and change just one little number, so instead of 16 goats for sale the ad will now read 18 goats (and one llama). If we go late at night we can just sneak our two into the herd and nobody will ever notice. Yeah, let me get my keys...

Christmas Greetings 2012

                                         From our family to yours, Merry Christmas!

Bedtime Story for the Goats: Uncle Pete and the Snowmobile

The wind howled, the rain pounded in torrents on the shed roof - I had brought the goats warm water and fresh hay before bed but they didn't want me to leave them alone in the storm.

"Just tell us one bedtime story," begged Emerson. "Then we'll be able to sleep, won't we, Elliot?" (Ellie, huddled shaking and forlorn in the corner of the shed, gave no answer - but how could I turn away from those pleading eyes? I settled down behind a bale of straw and patted the hay next to me. Quickly I had two semi-damp goats on my lap. I knew just the tale for them...

"Did I ever tell you boys the story of Uncle Pete and the snowmobile? No? Well, I think you'll like this one." (And you may listen in! After all, if you read this blog, I know you can't be too squeamish...)

It was twenty-some years ago, when Mike and I had just started dating. Everyone was gathered at his family's farmhouse for the evening, including his newlywed older sister and her husband (that's Uncle Pete!) There was excitement in the air as the flurries started to fall - the first snow of the season. Soon the fields were covered in an inch of white, then two or three, and Uncle Pete couldn't wait any longer. His father-in-law's snowmobile was just calling to be ridden. So Uncle Pete put on his coat, borrowed Grandpa's brand new snow boots and went outside. It was wonderful! The Artic-Cat flew down the driveway, across the fields - and then as he sped behind the barn he saw it - the most wonderful thing ever -

"Better than apples?" Yes, Emerson, better than apples. Better than apples and grain together, even...

What Uncle Pete spied behind the chicken house was a giant snowdrift, four feet high maybe, all white and shimmery and looking like the best thing ever to ride the snowmobile up and over and fly off the other side - and so that's what he did, well, tried  to do...Uncle Pete drove around the barn again to gain more speed and floored the accelerator as he approached the snowdrift - whuummph! Partway up the mammoth drift the Artic-Cat just stopped, then slowly, very slowly, began sinking down into what was now very clearly not a mound of hard-packed snow but rather something soft and mushy and even a little bit warm...

"What's that, Emerson? How could there be a giant snowdrift when it had only started snowing a few hours before? Well, that's exactly what Uncle Pete was realizing about now..."

And as the odor wafted upwards as he sank deeper and deeper, that's when he remembered that yesterday had been the dreaded day (a twice-yearly chore) Mike and his brothers had cleaned out the chicken house, and the squishy substance now engulfing Granpa's snowmobile (and Uncle Pete in his brand new boots) was the snow-covered manure from 85,000 chickens for the last 22 weeks. Gagging and retching, Uncle Pete climbed out of the pile, but it took all the brothers helping to extricate the Artic-Cat. Even now, I can hardly think of anything worse!

"I can think of something worse than that," piped up Emerson sleepily. "What if you had 85,000 goats and you only cleaned up after them every 22 weeks?" 

Well, yes, that would be worse.
Goodnight, boys!

You're Never Too Big...

                                                    Sometimes you just want to be held!

Goats, Gates, and Buckles

Twice a day or so I bring the goat boys up on the deck outside our kitchen - they like to be closer to us and something about the sound of their hooves on the wooden boards seems to encourage them to dance around together in a way they do nowhere else. I reinforce the regular gate to the steps with an additional baby gate to prevent escapes. Usually when I let them out of their pen in the driveway they run right up the stairs to the deck, but the other night they took an unexpected detour because I had foolishly left the recycling bin out - Look, Elliot! A New-and-Very-Interesting-Potentially-Edible-Object!! Let's go check it out! To lure them away I grabbed a bucket of hay and a shaker of treats from the garage, and they reluctantly followed me up the steps. I set the hay down by the sliding glass door and went inside, leaving them to their dance.

About fifteen minutes later I was standing at the sink when I glanced out the window and spied the open gate. That's strange, I mused,  I thought the goats were up here... Suddenly my heart was in my throat as I realized the potential enormity of my mistake - I quickly scanned the deck through the window for - no goats! My goodness, they could be anywhere by now - in the road, at a neighbor's eating poisonous shrubbery, halfway to the next county...Where we we even start looking? Would they come back if we called them? I yelled for Emily as I yanked open the door - and there they were, standing right by the door and rubbing their horn scurs against the brick. Either they had not noticed the open gate or they are so superbly well-behaved that they decided not to take advantage of their chance at freedom. (I'm inclined to go with Option 1...) I sat with them for a while, and the word that came to me was "buckles..."

When my twin daughters were about two years old, I ordered from a catalog the sweetest little pink Mary Jane-type shoes with a buckle strap that closed with one easy snap. They fit Megan perfectly, but Emily had inherited my husband's extra-wide feet (they don't sell pink Mary Janes in a 4E width!) so her shoes were constantly coming unsnapped and many times a day she came to me to fix her "buckles." One day I had an appointment in the city, a trip I dreaded as I much prefer winding country roads to busy highways with merges, quick lane changes and heavy truck traffic. I gave the girls some extra snacks and toys in the back seat and prayed they would behave. We were barely out of the driveway, though, when Emily started fussing about her buckles. Already running late and not really sure of the directions (pre-GPS days!), I popped in a Sesame Street sing-along cassette and told her I'd fix the shoes when we got there. She continued to cry, however - "Mommy! My buckles..." and then Megan chimed in and I turned up the music louder and louder until I couldn't take the cacophany of two wailing toddlers any more. I veered into an emergency pull-off area, stomped on the brake and yanked open Emily's sliding door - fully ready to rip off those blasted shoes and hurl them at the next big rig that sped by...But there were her shoes, perfectly buckled over her sparkly pink tights - Emily, they're fine, what on earth...? My eyes found her sobbing, tear-stained face and then her little chubby hands - clutching the unfastened straps of her carseat. Apparently in the distractions of leaving I had never buckled her in. I hugged her for a very long time.

Sometimes in life we get a reprieve.

Cherish every day with your children. You never know what tomorrow may bring.
And if you have goats, cherish them too. (But always remember to close the gate!)

Call Me What?

This is one of those times where I have several seemingly-unrelated threads of story - hoping to weave them together into something that makes sense. We'll see how it goes.

I believe it started when my daughters were in third grade so many years ago. Arriving slightly late for Parent-Teacher Night at the local elementary school, Mike and I slipped into the back row as the principal was presenting a new school initiative -  a necesssary addition to school regulations designed to keep our children safe from a potentially-dangerous (though popular) activity. As he droned on about rules and penalties for infractions, I was puzzled. This now-banned activity was one in which I had participated many times, both as a child and an adult, had even enjoyed. Did the administration have the right to regulate what students did even off school property?  And where was the danger, really? Heavy equipment, slippery floors, I still wasn't gettting it. I leaned over and whispered to my husband about the inanity of this new program.

Mike just shook his head, then rolled his eyes. Knowing that an injury several years ago left me with a moderate hearing impairment, he should be used to this...

"Not anti-bowling," he whispered into my good ear. "It's the new anti-bullying initiative."

Well, that was just a little embarrassing.

Now on to the goats...we realized that while most of our pets have several affectionate nicknames (Benny-Boo, Tobi-kins, Ellie-Belly), there just wasn't a good one for Emerson. In reaction to his ever-naughty personality I have called him Scampy and even "Demon Spawn," but who knows what that does to his self-esteem? The hunt for a nickname was on. "Emmie" was vetoed because we also use that for my daughter Emily (too confusing, for example, if I say "Emmie just pooped all over the deck"). The thing about Emerson is he's just so bad. One thing that really annoys me is how he has taken to viciously butting his horn scur into Ellie's side whenever I am rewarding them with animal crackers for good behavior, like going into the pen at night. Ever since Ellie's own scurs were ripped off by the vet, he has little self-defense against his smaller brother. Emerson only ever had one scur but now he's using it to full advantage. Does he really think I'll give him all the treats if he gets his brother out of the way? You can't help but love him anyway, though, especially with his thick, soft winter coat - like petting a wooly mammoth - and then it came to me.

Anyone older than I am may remember a great old song by Sam the Sham & the Pharaohs (thanks, Megan, for looking that up for me!), and it describes Emerson perfectly. Listen to the song on you-tube if you don't know it, and think of Emerson - our own little "Wooly Bully."

The Goats' Letter to Santa

As part of my daughters' 11th grade English class, the students craft replies to Santa letters written by local second graders. I am always amused to read the childrens' missives to Santa (poor kids unaware that instead of heading to the North Pole their precious letters are only traveling to the high school through inter-office mail...)

"Dear Santa," writes young Owen, "Remember me? I'm sorry I was naughty again. Will you bring me lots of legos?" Katie only wants a book about bats, and I really hope someone tells her parents that before they buy out the Barbie aisle...It kind of got me thinking what Emerson and Elliot might write in their Santa letters...

Dear Santa,
This is our first Christmas, so can you forgive us for being naughty?  We didn't mean it that time we knocked down the gate and ran off down the driveway, and when Emerson pees in the hay bucket it's always an accident! As for that priceless straw hat, could you try to forget about that? We didn't know it was a library book that we chewed the corners off (it was so yummy!) and that time Elliot jumped on the hood of Dad's car - it was just too tempting! (Mom did tell him not to park there...) When Emmie gnawed a hole in Emily's favorite coat and then pooped in her shoes, it was just his way of showing affection! And when we head-butt each other off the table to get all the apples, nobody really gets hurt too much...We try to be good but it's just so hard! If you could bring us some extra animal crackers and sturdy cardboard boxes to eat, we'd be so happy! Maybe you could make the yummy weeds grow back and stop it being dark so early and ask the peoples to play with us a little more...And we promise, next time Mommy tries to take our Christmas photo, we'll keep our Santa hats on for more than a millisecond and maybe we'll even look at the camera!
Love,
Emerson and Elliot

P.S. We'd love to meet this Rudolph character everyone keeps talking about - he kind of looks like us!

Cat and Mouse - The Final Chapter

You may think he looks sweet and delicate, a pampered pet who couldn't even fight off a ...but wait - appearances can be deceiving. And if you have no idea where this is going, you need to scroll down three  posts and start there.

This morning when I went down to the goat pen, I was horrified to see - oh wait, I'm getting ahead of myself again. Back to Benny...

Since Benny's humiliating and injurious run-in with a  large (we hope) rodent last week, I have not allowed him to go outside. This caused him great distress, leading to hours spent howling at the back door until my husband finally bought a pair of earplugs for himself. I tried explaining to Benny about open wounds, the need to moniter his food intake, the danger that his fierce attacker was still out there and might prey on Benny's weakened state...Yesterday, unable to tolerate the incessant yowling and continuous attempts to escape every time the door was opened, I proposed a compromise. Benny would be allowed outside only in the mornings, when nocturnal predators are generally asleep and when I could keep an eye on him. Benny agreed. So, early this morning, as planned, Megan let him outside while I was making breakfast. After about an hour he returned, looking quite pleased with himself. He ate an entire bowl of food (back to his crunchy kind!!) and went to sleep.

Now I went down to the goat pen to see Em and Ellie. As I approached the gate carrying their pan of grain, they started dancing around the pen in anticipation...and that's when I dropped the pan (grain flying everywhere), staring at the grisly and horrific sight on the driveway, right outside the gate. Could the goats have done this? How? Why? 

Directly where I would have to step to open the gate was what I believe had once been a moderate-sized rodent, decapitated and disembowled with all its parts neatly arranged in a straight line, but definitely still (once) a mouse. But goats are herbivores, and how had they gotten it over the gate...? And then I remembered Benny's smug grin when he came inside, and it all made sense.  Feline revenge - as well as a direct message to me. The cats know how I hate finding their prey outside the back door (especially after an unfortunate episode involving bare feet and a lot of screaming at them) - and smart Benny knows where I spend most of my time anymore - he knew exactly the right place to leave his message - See, I can take care of myself out here - keep letting me out, Love, Benny the Fierce.

I turned back to the garage for a shovel and more goat grain. 

Farewell to the Bottle Swing

Most of our childrens' milestones pass by unnoticed - we may mark birthdays, graduations, learning to drive...but what of all the little things? Who remembers that last time you had to tie your child's shoes, before he mastered the skill? The last time she needed you to zipper her coat, or the last bedtime story you read aloud? As our kids grow up, they learn to feed, dress and care for themselves. Most moms can tell you the age each child was potty-trained but have little idea when brushing teeth no longer required assistance. It just happens, and one day they're doing their own laundry and making eggs for breakfast. (At least that's what I've heard!)

It's not that way with goats. 

I keep waiting for Em and Ellie to start scooping up their own droppings, refilling the hay buckets or trimming each other's hooves, but so far the only skill they've mastered is what we call "self-weeding." (They used to stand by patches of their preferred weeds and wait for us to pick and hand-feed - but thankfully they've finally figured this one out.) However, there is one milestone we mark with a little bit of sadness, the end of what for many months was our favorite time of day - feeding time on the "bottle swing."

A covered wooden swing outside of the fenced yard, this somehow became the place for morning and afternoon (then only morning) bottles. All Emily and I had to do was hold out the bottles, open a gate, and watch as both goats ran charging to take their places on the swing, Emerson always on the left seat and Ellie on the right. Bottles were the only time they ever used the swing, and afterward they enjoyed staying on our laps or just basking on the benches for a while. After bottles we gave them some "hand-weeding" from the delicious patch of tiger lilies nearby, then they obediently went back to the yard.

It was Emerson being sick that ended it - as he recovered he bottled much slower, and Elliot grew bored of waiting and started wandering off. The weeds dried up with the onset of frost, my husband dumped a load of scrap wood with rusty nails below the swing, and I needed to focus on coaxing Emerson to finish his entire bottle (now containing medication) without worrying about where Ellie had gone. I decided to bottle them on the gated deck, just until the weekend, or just until Thanksgiving break (when Emily would be there to help). At first the goats were confused - they took their bottles on the deck, then when I opened the gate to take them down to the yard, they ran to their places on the swing. More bottles? But now they don't seem to even remember, and it seems better to keep consistent and just never take them back to the swing. It works well to feed them on the deck and nobody can wander off. Why confuse them now?

However, just because they don't miss it, doesn't mean there isn't a little piece of my heart that doesn't yearn for just one more day on the bottle swing...

Critter Update

I've been fighting a cold all week, and my kitchen counter is littered with cough drops, decongestants and other cold remedies. I just have to be careful not to grab the wrong medicine in the night, since I am certainly not the only family member under medical care.

Emerson seems to have made a complete recovery from his frightening bout with urinary calculi. After considerable internet research, however, I decided to keep him on a prophylactic dose of ammonium chloride, the drug I credit with saving his life last month. We weaned him off it slowly and are currently dosing him with 1/8 teaspoon per day, five days a week, in his morning bottle. An eventual goal might be every other day, at least over the winter when calculi are more prevalent. So this is one little container on the counter (recall I got this at a yard sale along with some goat fencing over the summer, a loosely-labeled ziploc bag of white powder devoid of strength or dosage instructions...but it seems to have worked!)

My other patient is Benny - still recovering from his run-in last week with "the creature who will not be named." Although his wounds appear to be healing nicely (thanks to twice-daily applications of antiseptic-lidocaine wash and oral antibiotics), he is still quite weak and having difficulty eating. Since he seems unable to chew his regular dry cat food, I have given him cat food from a can - a new experience. What an ordeal!! I have never perused this aisle in the grocery store before! There seems to be two basic categories - the affordable "bargain brand" cans - the contents of which resemble pureed vomit and which Benny would not go anywhere near - and the deluxe "you need a payment plan" gourmet offerings for pampered felines. These cans are twice the price for half the size - and oh, the choices...First you choose between classic (pureed), flaked, grilled, sauteed or tender chunks. (Benny prefers flaked.) Then you choose your flavor - chicken, beef, lamb, veal, liver, salmon, tuna, trout (Benny's favorite!), crab, caviar, shrimp newburg...it's almost like dining at Red Lobster (and approximately the same cost). How can you put a price on your pet's health and well-being? (Really, it's best just not to think about it - keeps me from crying that way!)

Next to Benny's antibiotic pills is one last item - triple antibiotic cream - that's for me. After having to hold him still and shove these horrid pills down his throat morning and evening, my hands are as bitten, scratched and bloody as his chest was that night...With teeth that sharp, I cannot fathom why he can't chew crunchy kibbles. Yet another one of life's little mysteries...

Cat versus...what?

Sometimes scary things happen...and sometimes things happen that are just too embarrassing to talk about, but  maybe I should start at the beginning...and by the way, this post is not about goats.

Those who know me well may realize that while I care for (and care for) Emerson and Elliot, my heart belongs to someone else. For the past nine years, Benny has been so much more than a pet - he is joy and affection and love and companionship all rolled up into fourteen pounds of unfathomably soft fur and the light of my life. Born in a wishing well and abandoned by his feral cat mother, he was bottle-raised almost since birth and will snuggle up with us like no other cat I've known. (And for anyone who is wondering, no, I do not still give him a daily bottle). Benny is gentle, quiet and unassuming, which explains how he came in last evening from his nightly foray into the yard and lower fields and sat silently in the corner of the kitchen, dripping red all over the floor and waiting patiently for someone to notice that his entire chest was covered in blood.  

Frantic, Emily and I tried to clean him up, to find the source of all this bleeding, to know what to do. It took me less than three minutes to realize that we needed to put in an emergency call to the vet. Several years ago Benny was attacked by a hawk, barely surviving the deep puncture wounds of the predator's sharp talons. Another time, a nasty respiratory virus kept him hospitalized for a week. As we bundled him into a fleece blanket and sped the two miles to our local veterinary clinic, I wondered what could have done this to him. My husband had seen a red fox in the field last month, and owls and hawks populate the woods below our house - what fierce creature had harmed our gentle cat this time?

Antiseptic irrigations, injections of antibiotics and painkillers, and the most humiliating shaving of most of the fur from his chest and shoulder, I was finally able to bring him home this afternoon. I spoke to the vet (whom we have trusted with our pets these last twenty-some years and whose veterinary knowledge seems limitless) and I asked him what animal could have caused these grievous injuries. Gravely, he showed me each site, describing tissue depth and wound patterns, explaining how, although the bleeding had been profuse and the area extensive, the cuts were not deep enough to be blamed on a hawk, not large enough to attribute to even another cat. Based on all the forensic evidence and decades of experience, his professional opinion was that our beloved Benny had been bested by...a mouse.

A desperate mouse, to be sure, probably a mouse scrabbling and kicking in Benny's paws and fighting for its life, and possibly even a large mouse, but definitely still...a mouse.  

First, the unilateral baldness and awful scabs, then the humiliation of being sat on to have a pill forced down his throat twice a day for a week...the embarrassment of admitting his foe is almost too much to bear. If you believe in the beasts known as ROUS* which terrorized Wesley and Buttercup in The Princess Bride, stick to that story. We have decided to tell people it was a fierce wolf, a herd of vicious possums, a mountain lion perhaps. He fought off a pack of wild dogs to save a newborn kittten...please help me keep his secret!

   

*ROUS - Rodents of Unusual Size (read the book or watch the movie!)



Happy Goat Day!

Who can understand the mind of a goat? I found this older photo which shows the tiny plastic house the goats lived in until my husband built their deluxe shed - it is hidden behind the higher platform, a yard-sale find which served them well most of the summer. Now that they have much more elaborate living quarters, I moved this lightweight hut up onto the deck, figuring that they could keep warm and dry in it while hanging out by the back door to our dining room...FORGET IT!

They act as though they have never seen this frightening foreign apparatus before - choosing to huddle against the windowsills rather than go into the little house. Even when I put their buckets of hay in it on a rainy day, they stand outside the structure and stretch their necks in to yank out mouthfuls of hay. I have cleaned it, lined it with familiar black mats (which Elliot is also now nibbling, following his brother's example) and even tried sitting in it myself to coax them in. Maybe I should show them the photo. See? You spent many happy months here! Goats!!

We have decided there are two kinds of days - goat days and not-goat days. When the weather is dry and sunny, even if the temperature is sub-zero, those are the days for goats. They will lounge outdoors for hours. Any sort of precipitation, however, sends them frantically hovering inside the shed all day. Not even gentle snowflakes will be tolerated. Of course, all day in the shed means massive clean-up for us...

Today is a goat day. The weather chart says "brisk" but the sun is shining. All is well with their world.

Rubber...It's What's for Dinner?

One of the benefits of having teenage daughters is that occasionally you can pawn off some of the housework on them...Megan, for example, is an awesome laundry helper and often empties the dishwasher without being asked. Emily is a decent cook - well, usually. Tonight she favored us with a new, healthful recipe she's been eager to try - vegetarian black bean burgers. My husband claimed he had eaten a late lunch and wasn't hungry, so the girls and I dined together in the kitchen. I'm not sure whether it was the texture, the taste or the general appearance of these burgers...but for some reason I was reminded of a problem we're having with Emerson lately. (Keep thinking about those burgers...)

Ok, although most domestic goats are housed on a bedding of straw or hay, ours have been raised with their living quarters lined with interlocking vinyl black mats, a situation we found to be much cleaner and less allergenic (to us) than copious amounts of straw everywhere. Since our goats are trained to eliminate their waste only in specific areas, this has worked exceedingly well for us - until now. Two days ago Emerson started eating the mats.

We first noticed a few chewed corners, then I caught him nibbling chunks off the edges of the deck mats. Eight months this has never been a problem - why now? It's like a recurrence of his shingle-eating several months ago. My options are limited here. I could remove all the mats, forcing the goats to sleep (and us to sit with them) on the cold ground, or I could treat the mats with nasty deer-repellant spray. This would likely cause them to avoid all contact with the mats forever.  

As I have recently nursed our scampy Emerson back from the scare of urinary calculi, a fearsome malady few goats survive, it is difficult to be too harsh with him. But really, Emerson?? We finally have a handle on this whole goat thing - Emily and I even custom-cut mats to the exact dimensions of their shed, their driveway house and their deck hut. There are mats on the deck for sleeping, even a mat in their outdoor pen that Elliot uses to pee on when the grass is wet. (Yes, spoiled, I know...) I really don't want to take the mats away, but I'm also fairly certain that large quantities of rubber cannot be good for caprine digestion.

Back to those vegetarian black bean burgers, I'm not sure what made me think about eating rubberized vinyl during dinner...but maybe Emily will bake chocolate chip cookies for dessert. Otherwise I might have to join Emerson for a snack outside; I'm definitely still hungry (since most of my burger "accidentally" fell into the trash can...) Hey - I wonder if goats can eat black beans? We have ten burgers left...

Happy Thanksgiving!

"And what time exactly will you be serving our pumpkin pie?"

Raking Leaves With Goats

Our church sponsors an annual "Community Leaf Raking Day," helping elderly or disabled neighbors with the autumn yardwork. I contemplated having us participate as a family this year but just wasn't sure how the goats would behave...so I sent Mike off with a van full of youth rakers while I stayed home with Em and Ellie. I figured they could help me rake our own yard - a beautiful sunny day ideal for outdoor mother-goat bonding time. As crunchy dried leaves are one of their most favorite snacks, they've been doing their best to graze the yard clean, but there was still a few leaves left for me to gather.

Here's what I learned. Raking leaves with goats is a bit like raking leaves with toddlers. It sounds like a fun idea in the beginning. Both enjoy jumping in the great piles of leaves (undoing all your hard work), and both will constantly pester you for snacks and attention, slightly peeved that you are showing more interest in a wooden-handled tool than in playing with them. Also, there will be frequent bathroom breaks.

If you have a choice in leaf-raking companions, stick with small children. Although they will still bolt for freedom every time you try to drag a heavy tarp through the open gate, escaped toddlers are slower and much easier to catch than runaway goats. In addition, children eat plastic tarps rarely, and rakes, never. (The same cannot be said for goats, who eat nothing you want them to and everything you don't.)  

I wonder if you can teach goats to shovel snow...

Light for the 'Fraidy Goats

When I read in a book that goats are afraid of the dark, I scoffed. These are outdoor animals, native to places like Tibet and Wyoming where surely there is ample darkness - and how exactly would you know this fact anyway? Are herds of wild goats clustering around lone streetlights in the desert, or building little campfires?

Yet, a mere eight months into our own goating experience, I believe this is true. Unlike my nocturnal cats who howl at the door to go out every evening, Emerson and Elliot fear the night, often sleeping outside (illuminated by the moon) instead of in their cozy (but scary dark) shed. Since our outdoor floodlight which brightens their pen also shines directly into all the bedroom windows, I used to turn it off every night before I went to bed, opening the side garage door to reach the switch. Somehow the goats learned to associate the sound of that door with the onset of terrifying darkness, and even after I bought room-darkening shades for the bedrooms and started leaving the light on for them, they still startle when we open that door for any reason, freezing in panic with ears perked up, prepared to bolt for the safety of the tiny solar lights which cast a dim glow around their shed. I have tried to decondition this fear by opening the door multiple times during the day and bringing them fresh hay and treats from it, but the terror is still too deeply ingrained.

Over the weekend the inevitable happened - the floodlight bulb burned out. As this is an expensive and hard-to-find specialty item, as well as being mounted just below the second-story roofline and requiring an extension ladder to change, I mentioned the task to my husband so he could leave some time in his schedule. He peered up at the roof, then got in his car and drove away, hopefully to go buy a new bulb, I thought. When he returned with three bags and several long pipes, I was puzzled. All this to change a lightbulb? Then he got a shovel and drill from the garage, and suddenly we were all drafted into digging trenches in the yard as he drilled through the block wall to run electric to the goat shed. Several hours later the goats were the proud owners of their own outlet (set up high, well out of chewing range) and a lamp mounted outside the shed so bright it can probably be seen from space. Unfortunately the only plug-in nightlight I had on hand was a pink American Girl "Coconut the fluffy dog" light, and they are very embarrassed by that, but it casts a wonderful soft glow in their shed...life is good in the goat world. What's next? Maybe their own TV?

Sleeping in Boxes...

What is it about animals and small spaces? Keep in mind all our pets have soft, comfortable beds available to them... 

Yeah, I bought the pan already but was waiting to get the turkey until next week - maybe I won't need a turkey after all! She's a perfect fit!



The Proposal - Goat Style

Every morning after my husband and kids are out the door, the goats and I watch the Today Show together. I catch up on news and weather while cleaning up the kitchen, and the goat boys hang out on their mat right outside the screen door (kept open at least a crack so they can hear). I figure as long as they hear voices they'll think someone's keeping an eye on them and are less likely to misbehave if I leave the room...but you just never know whether all news is goat-appropriate.

Yesterday one of the stories featured a fascinating new career choice - "proposal planner." Amazingly, you can pay these people several thousand dollars to choreograph a proposal to your beloved - if they are successful you will then need the services of a "wedding planner" (which when I got married was called "your mom and maid of honor" but now is almost mandatory for successful nuptials). I found the whole thing a bit absurd. Really? Any guy who can't come up with a creative way to pop the question himself doesn't deserve you! And so, in lieu of another post about goat bodily functions, I will instead share my own proposal story (and the goats will come back at the end).

It was 22 years ago, and Mike's extended family was vacationing on a guided tour of the British Isles. At the same time (ok, maybe we planned this part a little) I was visiting my younger sister who was an exchange student in London. My sister and I arranged to meet Mike's group in Edinburgh, Scotland and spend the day touring with them. As we climbed the steps in the city's famous castle, I was slightly annoyed that Mike kept stopping to look at armor displays and we had fallen behind the rest of the group. We stood alone at the wall atop the castle, overlooking lovely Edinburgh, when Mike suddenly dropped down on one knee and produced a diamond ring from his pocket. Stunned (he had kept this secret even from his own family - I never suspected) and enchanted, how could I refuse such a romantic proposal? The best part is that he thought it up all on his own without having to pay a professional.

However, little goats may have big ears, because this morning I overheard Emerson and Elliot plotting ways to earn money so that they could hire one of these "proposal planners." (Apparently they want to sell their droppings for fertilizer and hire themselves out for childrens birthday parties...) It seems they have some proposals for me - and by sneaking up behind them I know what they want...unlimited grain, apples and carrots increased to twice a day, and an open-gate policy during the day. They also propose access to the basement and a guarantee of at least six hours a day of outdoor human companionship, no matter what the weather...Better save up your money, goat boys, if you want to convince me of all that!

Emerson Update - Cautious Optimism

This is an update on Emerson's condition (so if you haven't read yesterday's post, you should do that first). Thanks to many of you who have expressed concern for him.

He had a rough afternoon yesterday after the vet left - restless and uncomfortable. He was finally able to sleep for several hours on the deck after another dose of the pain medicine (a pill I hid in pockets carved into apple slices - he never suspected!). I was quite concerned about how to tell Emily about him when she got home from school, but when Emerson saw her, he jumped up wagging his fluffy tail, and when she took him to the yard and told him to "pee," he did, seemingly without effort. That was after I had given him a second bottle with the ammonium chloride, so the combination of medications must have started working. 

Although he was still a bit stiff-legged and sluggish last night, this morning he was back to his usual exhuberant self, dancing on his back legs and head-butting his brother for the best pickings from the hay bucket. He has had no further difficulty passing urine and his main complaint is the lack of grain (strict no-grain diet for a week). The photo above would be from happier days when his grain bowl was filled!

Though he seems to have beaten the odds, we are not out of the woods yet. Since urinary calculi has a high rate of recurrence, we will continue the ammonium a few more days, looking for the right balance between therapeutic effect and toxicity - it is a nasty and caustic chemical. We need to test his urine ph (many of my friends are rolling their eyes right now, I know!) and adjust his diet to bring it into the proper range. But for now, the immediate crisis seems to be averted, and it is wonderful to have our little scampy Emerson back. I guess nobody ever said having goats was easy...Wait, that is what people say, that's why we got into goats in the first place...

To my friend hospitalized with severe abdominal pain and my close relatives battling illness, Emerson sends his regards and says now he knows what it is to feel "crappy" - wishes and prayers for better days ahead!

Emerson

"Life turns on a dime..." As the drama of the presidential election unfolds around us, the veterinarian has just pulled out of the driveway, leaving me a countertop of medications, a very sick goatie and a dim prognosis. I noticed this morning that Emerson did not seem his usual naughty, energetic self, instead perching stiffly on the windowsill and ignoring the box of fresh hay on the deck...When I brought out their bottles ("Bottles!" - usually the highlight of his day) and he hobbled slowly down the steps and then turned aside after only a few sips, my concern grew exponentially - and when I saw him straining to release a scant amount of urine on the driveway, my worst fears were confirmed.

Urinary calculi is the dread of all who raise male goats, an oft-fatal malady caused by the anatomical structure of neutered goats ("wethers") and which causes the formation of calculi, or "stones," which block the urinary tract. Without successful treatment, the end result is rupture of the bladder and subsequent death. Even with treatment, the prognosis is only around 50%, and recurrences are common.

Emerson has had injections of antibiotics, muscle relaxant and painkiller. I coaxed into him (via bottle) the only medication which dissolves these stones, ammonium chloride (luckily had a bag in the garage from a yard sale, which I was able to give even before the vet got here.) Apparently the ammonium is very bad-tasting and alsmost impossible to get goats to take, so it is a fortunate thing indeed we are still using bottles. (He is now prescribed 2 bottles a day with the ammonium.) The vet may return tomorrow.

Emmie is uncomfortable, anxious, confused. It was awful to hold him down for the shots. He paces, trying to rest, straining to pee. The blockage is not complete as he dribbles out small amounts. For now I will watch, moniter, medicate, comfort, pray.  If  you had asked me a year ago if I might love a goat, I would have laughed. Now I hold back tears. Perhaps the last eight months have turned me to lunacy. I guess there are worse things to be. 

Daylight Savings Time

"Spring forward, fall back..." Who doesn't relish the idea of an extra hour of sleep one day a year? Sounds marvelous - but who's really sleeping in? Your teenagers, your husbands maybe...certainly not moms with young children (who have their own internal clock) or goats...

I woke up Sunday at the usual time - but with the blissful awareness that I had sixty whole extra minutes to get everything done before church. What a gift! Since Mike had a crew of helpers over the previous day to put a roof on his storage shed, there were many more dishes than usual in the sink, a chore I would have taken care of Saturday evening except that we had treated the girls to a local theater performance after dinner (Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire  - fantastic!) so it had been a late night. I tiptoed to the kitchen and cleaned up, fed the cats, put on a pot of coffee then mixed up a batch of gingerbread muffins for a youth group bake sale that morning. Daylight now, it was time to tackle the goats. (Yes, I could have woken Emily, but just like sleeping goats, sleeping children are best left alone...and actually I really enjoy being the bearer of their now-miniscule ration of grain on a brisk morning....filling the hay buckets...scooping two or three tons of poop...)

Thoroughly chilled, I came inside to find Mike and Megan in the kitchen, drinking the coffee I'd made, eating warm gingerbread muffins, but surprisingly not reading the coveted Sunday paper. Since they grudgingly take turns making the 1/8 mile trek down the driveway to retrieve it from the damp grass,  I asked, "What? No paper today?" They both looked at me sheepishly, but it was Mike who spoke first.

"It's so cold outside - we were hoping you could go get it."

Knowing that fresh newsprint is one of the goats' favorite treats, I was very tempted...but instead I pretended not to hear him and just took a long hot shower...

Word of the Day - Altruism

Captivated by news coverage of storm-ravaged New York and New Jersey, I am heartened by the stories of altruism - of neighbors helping neighbors, people sharing food and water with strangers, of those who put the needs of others before themselves even in a desperate situation.

Believe this - if New York City was populated entirely by goats, the Big Apple would be in big trouble! (And I'm not just talking about the sanitation aspect, either.) Goats may be interesting, curious, affectionate and even snuggly at times - but they are definitely not altruistic. From my observation, a goat will never put the needs of another before his own, no way, no how...

Every afternoon, I cut up an apple into bite-size chunks as a treat for Em and Ellie. Creatures of habit, they run to the picnic table and stand on top of it as I feed them individual pieces. Two goats, two hands - so they are both eating at the same time, plenty for everyone...except that between every bite, they fiercely head-butt each other in the sides in an effort to push the other goat off the table. I guess the thought process is something like, "If I shove my brother onto the ground, maybe she'll give me both pieces of apple next time!" Elliot has the weight advantage (56 pounds to Emerson's 42), but Em is quicker and more devious...it's a draw who ends up on the grass. Sharing? Why would we do that?

Humans are not always altruistic either. Although I was inspired last month when a friend spent several hours helping a distraught stranger search for missing car keys, I confess that sometimes I fail miserably. Last week I picked up Emily after sports practice, and when she grabbed a magazine in the car a huge spider dropped out on her leg and then crawled up her shorts! I was naturally sympathetic as she shrieked and then yanked off her clothes (yes, in the front seat of the moving car!), but really what my selfish mind was thinking is this - "I'm just so glad that spider landed on Emily and not me!" I know I am not alone here as recently a friend confessed that when she discovered a bat in her child's room, she ran from the room and slammed the door, leaving her young daughter alone with the bat!

Maybe we are more like goats than we think. (And truly, I have no idea who ate the last chocolate cupcake...)

Hurricane Games...

As the storm raged outside, we kept busy eating all our non-perishable snacks and playing board games - anything that didn't require electronics or electricity. The girls pulled out Battleship and Clue from the back of a cabinet, but our favorite is "Speed Scrabble," a fantastically-fun version of the popular spelling game involving all the letter tiles but not the board. Between games we went out to the garage to console the lonely goats...who, we discovered, had also invented their own game to pass the time...

Confined to their improvised hurricane pen inside the garage (warm and dry but frighteningly unfamiliar), Emerson and Elliot apparently spent several hours engaged in a new activity we called "Poop & Stomp." To  play this game (not that I really expect any readers to do so...), the goats first deposit their pellets (that's the "poop" part) all over the garage floor, preferably while running in circles for maximum scatter-ability.  Then (this is the "stomp" part) they butt heads, rear up on hind legs in choreographed tandem, and bring down their forelegs in a forceful stomp, flattening anything that happens to be on the floor. This can be repeated dozens of times until exhausted. The end result is that, instead of an easy sweep of dried pellets with a broom, clean-up now requires individual scraping of each pile and pressure-washing of the concrete floor. Well, at least they were having fun...

Needless to say, the first chore we tackled once the rain stopped was moving the goats back outside. We still need to pick up some fallen tree limbs and bring out the porch furniture, but that can wait. We have water, electricity and a dry basement - blessings for which we are so thankful. Our prayers go out to those who fared much worse. Yet I beg one last attempt at humor in a serious situation. If there's one thing Sandy taught me about emergency preparedness, it's this - before the next storm, I really need to teach the goats to play Speed Scrabble!

The Goats Brace for Sandy

Two things our goats hate most of all are getting wet and change to their regular routine. This may be a rough week for them.

Along with much of the east coast, we are trying to prepare for Hurricane Sandy, an epic "Superstorm" forecast to unleash a wake of devastating winds, snow, flooding and prolonged power outages. We're stocked up on all the essentials - flashlights, batteries, water, peanut butter and Tastycakes. I did three loads of laundry yesterday so at least we'll have clean clothing if no showers...The cats are inside - but now we have the goats to consider. We could just lock them in their shed (hoping it doesn't blow away!) and brave the storm several times a day to take them fresh hay and scoop up their waste - but the most sensible plan seemed to be moving them into the garage for Sandy's duration.  It's warm, dry and attached to the house; they happily lived there for the first few months we had them. So last night we moved in some portable fencing and gave them a lovely 6 x 12 foot  pen with all their necessities (hay, water, sleeping mats, pee tray). I figured they'd love it as they are always trying to get into the garage to explore...

They HATED it!!

Together they ran frantically around the perimeter, knocking everything over and crying in desperate goat wails of terror - What is this scary prison?? Why are we here?? How can we get out?? Even sitting with them, trying to explain, and singing lullabies had no effect. Finally I left them and went to bed, although since the garage is directly under my bedroom I could still hear their mournful howls well into the night. When I went down this morning they were still distraught, and it looked like a nuclear poop bomb had gone off in the garage. Enough already! Now they are back outside in their shed, fed and bottled, until the worst of Sandy arrives this afternoon. We'll lure them back into the garage and try again...

Best wishes to all of you in Sandy's path. As Tom Hanks said in Apollo 13 (anticipating loss of communication around the back of the moon), "See you on the other side!"

The Goaties Get a Checkup: First Vet Visit

One of my best yard sale scores ever has to be a tiny yellow scrap of paper with the unlisted phone number of a private goat veterinarian - given to me by the couple who sold me this wooden shelter - anyone who has ever sought a vet who treats goats will appreciate what a treasure this was. Nervous about someday needing caprine medical care and having nowhere to go, and even though this vet was reportedly not accepting new clients, I decided to call (and beg!) and today she agreed to come and meet the boys, give them rabies shots and take away a sample of their droppings. Quite the morning...

Wanting to make sure I had a fresh sample for her to examine, I sat out on the deck early with a plastic cup, waiting for the goats' breakfast to reappear out the other end. Apparently it is best to catch a sample mid-air before the pellets touch the ground.  Knowing my goats, I figured I wouldn't have long to wait. Boy, was I wrong! Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty...what on earth? I felt like Horton the Elephant waiting on that egg, "and she sat, and she sat, and she sat, and she sat..." Success was a long time coming, but finally I collected the precious specimen for the veterinarian.

Although she was impressed by the Em and Ellie's deluxe living accomodations as well as the fact that they are litter-trained to "pee" in a tray of wood shavings (apparently unheard of in goats), she also told me that they appeared somewhat "rotund" and strongly suggested we cut back on grain. Also, she thought maybe we should start weaning them off bottles...oh how sad. As I wiped the tears from their little goat eyes, she reached down to check their horn scurs, those nasty and persistent sharp growths where their horns were twice burned away. Ellie especially had one worrisome scur which curled downward toward his scalp and threatened to puncture the skin. I held Ellie (loving a new person petting him!) when suddenly he emitted the most ghastly howl of agony and thrashed off my lap - and there stood my new vet with bloody hands and holding two little scurs ripped from his head. Despite my shock and horror at seeing Ellie's also-bleeding head (scurs have a rampant blood supply), I was actually quite impressed, as the alternatives are anesthesia and re-burning with a red-hot iron. I never knew you could just rip them off!

Emerson's single scur fortunately required no attention, and he was quite content to snuggle with me while getting his rabies shot. Elliot, however, would now have nothing to do with us, and we embarked on a wild chase around the yard, me with a shaker of treats and the vet with her needle, until I worried that Ellie (fast and wily but terrified) would have a heart attack. (Goats are not supposed to be stressed...) Then I worried that I might have a heart attack as this was more than my usual level of exertion. We did finally corner him in the wooden house and he got his injection with me lying on top of him. (At least, I think he was the one who got the shot...)

What a relief to have a competent vet for the boys - like when you find the perfect pediatrician for your newborn. The only problem is Ellie still won't come near me. Guess I'll have to give him lots of extra attention this weekend. I don't think I'll take away his bottle just yet...

A Mole of What?

We just enjoyed a week-long visit from my youngest sister, a nomadic biologist who constantly traverses the globe in search of new botanical knowledge and opportunities...she hasn't been to our little corner of the world in over a year so it was great to see her again. One of the best parts of her family's visit was introducing the goats to my 7-year old nephew.  Micah lavished lots of attention on Em and Ellie, climbing onto the roof with them and imitating their play with each other by "pushing" them on the deck (which they loved, always coming back for more). Micah also earned points with me by being a very adept "poop scooper" and would eagerly grab the nearest dustpan and brush whenever needed (usually about every five minutes...) I love that kid!!

Having driven twelve hours to watch her son clean up goat excrement, my sister finally gave her opinion of our "No Poop Left Behind" philosophy. "I don't know why you have to clean it up all the time," she remarked (clearly noticing that the scooper has become a natural extension of my right hand and our conversations were constantly interrupted to attend to this task). "Why don't you just let it dry up and biodegrade, or simply scoop it all up once a week?"

WHOA, WHOA, WHOA. This is the stuff of nightmares! Emily and I just looked at each other, both envisioning the yard overcome with higher and higher mounds of "nannyberries" until only the shed roof was visible (picture a National Guard rooftop rescue, like in flood zones) - of being unable to open the sliding door to the deck for an avalanche of poop - my goodness, if we waited a week the entire town could be covered...It is beyond comprehension, the potential disasters averted by my little scooper - a small sacrifice for the greater good.

Emily recently learned the concept of "mole" in Chemistry class - a number represented by 6 followed by 23 zeroes (or for you math geeks, 6 X 10 to the 23rd power). Apparently a "mole" of marshmallows would cover the earth in a layer twelve miles deep (ok, that's a lot of smores potential!) So an interesting question - what about a mole of goat droppings? Well, they are significantly smaller than marshmallows, but I'm still imagining a pretty unpleasant situation. I think I'll keep up the frequent scooping - just my own little effort to save the planet!

It also occurred to me that my sister is an educated scholar - how could this not be evident to her? Then I realized - her field is botany, and the waste product of plants is...oxygen! Now I know what we did wrong! Instead of goats, we should have gotten a pair of cute little houseplants.  (We probably could have even figured out a way to bottle-feed them!)


 

All the Comforts of Home

Another busy day as we took advantage of a warm fall weekend - along with other outdoor chores we swept out the goat pen and got a coat of paint on their shed. Also, because goat grain at my favorite feed store is on back-order until Tuesday, Emily and I carefully measured out all our remaining grain (not nearly enough!) into portions to get us through until then. (The goats will not be happy with smaller meals, but it's better than switching brands - remember it only comes in 50 pound bags - with all the gastronomical distress that would cause!) By evening my clothes were covered in paint, straw, grain flecks, goat hair...where did the day go?

We had tickets to a show at a local theater (ok, my daughter's high school play, but we don't get out much) and there was just enough time to clean up, put the goats away and  meet my in-laws at the box office. I scrubbed my hands, splashed some water on my face and grabbed the cute new black sweater I planned to wear - perfect with dress pants and just the right pair of earrings. Quick check in the bathroom mirror and we were out the door. Only as we pulled into the parking lot did I relax enough to notice...WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME I WAS STILL WEARING MY GOAT JEANS?? That's right, the straw-dusted, paint-splattered ones with a giant hole in the knee, faintly aromatic of the goat pen. DIDN'T ANYONE NOTICE? Silence...then a quiet voice from the back seat, "But Mom, you always wear those jeans."

 Technically almost correct - BUT NOT IN PUBLIC! NOT WHEN THE REST OF ME IS ALL DRESSED UP! At least the auditorium would be dark, I could spread out the program on my lap during intermission, and the play was so amazing I'm sure nobody noticed. It reminded me of something profound Emily said one day last week as we were sitting outside with the goats. "Mom," she remarked, "I think our house is like sweat pants."

Being of the Seinfeld generation (remember the quote about how wearing sweatpants is like giving up on life?), I was puzzled. I may not vacuum every day, but is it really that bad? Please elaborate, I told her cautiously. "Well," she said, "It's nothing too fancy and not the best for lavish dinners (this speaks to my abhorrence for hosting big family holidays), but it's warm and comfortable and fits our family just right."

Yeah, I can live with that. However, if she ever compares our home to my goat pants, I may have to make a few changes...

All the Better to Bite You With...

We celebrated an amazing milestone yesterday. After eight years, two months and one day, Emily was officially discharged from the care of her orthodontist. (Keep reading, we get to the goat part in a minute...) That means that for fully half her life she has been in various forms of spacing appliances, palate expanders, braces or retainers, including several extractions, two oral surgeries and hundreds of orthodontist visits. (I stopped adding up the money a few thousand dollars ago.) What price can you put on a great smile?!

So, here's a fact - for all the flaws goats may have, one terrific thing about goats is that they never need braces!! It's true. I did find one website which recommended consulting a "goat nutritionist" before making any dietary changes (my yellow pages has no such listing, sadly) but absolutely nowhere have I heard of a goat orthodontist. I have learned some interesting facts about goat teeth, however...and now you will too!

All You (N)ever Wanted to Know About Caprine Dentistry

1. Goats are born with eight very sharp baby teeth. They start losing them (to be replaced with permanent teeth) between one and two years of age. (And here I thought I was done playing tooth fairy...)

2. A full-grown goat by age five has 32 teeth, and you can fairly accurately tell a goat's age by counting its teeth.

3. Goats actually have no upper front teeth - just one big gum or "dental pad"  to mouth you with. Therefore, being bitten by a goat is not a real risk.

4. However, a goat's back teeth are razor-sharp, so if you let a goat suck on your finger, be prepared to lose it!

5. Occasionally very old goats will lose teeth as part of the aging process. (Dentures, however, are rarely required.)

6. The best oral care for goats is simply a good diet - lots of coarse hay and a salt lick to gnaw on. Brushing is not recommended.

                                            "Just relaxing on the deck, cleaning my molars..."

Boxy Boys

Recently a friend overheard me telling someone that the goats ate "about a box a day." Curious, she wondered, a box a day of what? Hay? Animal crackers? Apples?

No, I had to explain, not "a box a day" of anything. Just, a box. As in the plain brown cardboard variety. It's like a toy and a treat all-in-one. A nice sturdy box can keep them busy for hours. Plus, I figure it's good roughage for the rumens since they don't eat many weeds. (Somehow I don't think tender lilac leaves and hostas count as the "course roughage" so crucial to healthy caprine digestion...)

I am always on the lookout for cardboard - yard sales, farm markets, anywhere I can stow my purchases in a box. At one local market I package my items in discarded boxes at the checkout, and the friendly cashier always says, "Thanks for boxing!" as I leave with a cart full of boxes (carefully arranged with only two or three items in each!) Plus, think of the environmental benefit of not using all those plastic bags. Tomorrow this box will be fertilizer for the lawn!