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...