Frosty, the Snow Goat

I admit it. After nearly two years of this craziness, I still don't understand goats.

Last night was what the weatherman calls "unseasonably cold." With snow on the ground, the temperature was a bone-chilling 19 degrees F and falling. Concerned about the goats, I bundled up in coat, hat, mittens and boots to check on them. Would they be able to keep warm enough overnight in their shed? I think my husband has a heat lamp somewhere in the garage...

Teeth chattering, I peeked into their shed. Empty. Again, I panicked - would I find them stiff and frozen in the yard, unable to make it to shelter? If we brought them in the house to thaw them out, whose bed would I volunteer? Goats, where are you?

Right. Out behind the shed, sound asleep on the picnic table. I woke them up and lured them into the shed with fresh hay and hot water, making sure to turn on the night light and fluff up their sleeping mats. Catastrophe averted. Sleep well, stay warm, goaties!

This morning, as usual, I looked out my window to see if the goats had woken up yet. Emerson was walking around the yard, but Elliot was still asleep - curled up in a ball on top of the wooden box in the driveway. Rushing outside to investigate, I found two clues which told me he had been there all night - first, the mound of frozen droppings under his tail, and second, the fact that just like everything else outside, he was coated in a layer of frost.

I give up!

All Grown Up

All I wanted for Christmas...is for my goats to take their bottles. Alas, we can't always have everything we want (which is why there was no iPhone under the tree for my daughter this year - though I'm sure she'll enjoy her new headphones and Zumba workout video!). At nearly two years old, Em and Ellie have been refusing their morning warm-water bottles for about the last month, despite valiant efforts by me to coax them back to "bottle-baby" status. Yes, I realize this is somewhat ridiculous, but somehow I had envisioned this bottle phase lasting forever - great goat-human bonding time plus quite beneficial to their fragile urinary systems. After weeks of pleading and chasing them around the deck, I have given up. The bottles are packed away for good, reminiscent of when your child gives up her pacifier or security blanket...

Apparently goats reach puberty by fifteen months of age. I have no idea what this means to Em and Ellie, especially as they were neutered when they were three months old. Here's what's we've noticed lately - they are both starting to grow little beards. Not enough to put a "my first razor" in the Christmas stockings yet - but maybe they decided that anyone old enough to grow facial hair is too old for a bottle. I guess I can respect that.

If the Goats Got a New Home

Don't take this wrong - but for some reason we had a dinner conversation about what it would be like if the goats found a new home...perhaps a nice farm with a barn and acres of fenced fields and lots of other goats...Then we imagined Em and Ellie being shown around their new digs by one of the goat regulars - we'll call him Harold.

Harold: Eat here. Sleep here. Go outside if you want.

Emerson (sniffing the hay rack): This hay seems a little stale, like it's been in here a few hours. When will we get fresh hay?

Harold: Um, when we eat all that?

Ellie: I'm thirsty.

Harold: Bucket over there.

Emerson: Oh, no, brother, don't drink it - that water's cold. We should wait for "Hot Bucket." or "Hot Bowl." What do you mean, they don't bring out teapots every three hours? Also, that cold water has pieces of hay floating in it - it needs to be dumped! Let's call the peoples! And we need to remind them to put a little apple cider vinegar in our water, none of that plain stuff.

Harold: What's wrong with your brother? He's standing so dumb.

Emerson: Oh, he drank a whole Hot Bowl before we came. He probably needs someone to come and pee him. You know, push him into the peeing corner of the yard and say "Peepee, Ellie!" lots of times until he goes. What do you mean, we have to go all by ourselves? Here? Isn't there a tray for if we don't want to go outside? Sometimes our peoples would hold a big plastic cup under us while we peed - that way it didn't leave a mess in our shed. Ellie's really good at peeing in the cup.

Ellie: Where are the sleeping mats? I'm tired.

Emerson: It's okay, Ellie - I'm sure the peoples will bring us clean mats when they come to sing our nighttime lullabies.They must be very busy cutting up apples for us - look, I even pooped and nobody has come to sweep it up yet. That was at least ten minutes ago! By the way, Harold, are there pods here?

Ellie: I want to go home!

Here's the Scoop

If a picture is worth a thousand words...this one can answer two questions. First, where did the goats sleep last night (taking advantage of a rare break from winter chills)? And second, what is the reason we no longer eat at our picnic table?

 
Yes, Emerson sleeps on the far end, Elliot in the center. Gravity does the rest. Gotta love goats!

Elusive Eggs, Biting Dogs and Rabbit Poop

This is not a story about the goats...just maybe a story I would tell to the goats on a rainy day.

A few years ago, eighth grade Science Fair projects consumed our lives for several months. Since my sister had several ducks, Emily decided to do her project on the use of duck eggs in baking. Which cookies would taste the best - those baked with duck eggs or chicken eggs? Eager to be an official taste-tester, I helped her create a hypothesis, design the experiment and gather the needed supplies.

It was December when the time finally came to test her theory (and her baking skills). Unfortunately, my sister had since given her ducks away, tired of cleaning their droppings off her front porch. I tracked them to their new home, where I was informed that ducks do not lay eggs in the winter. (Apparently, I am the only person who did not know this.)  Panic set in. How on earth would Emily complete her project in time? After several phone calls to local farmers, I was referred to a small market about an hour from us.

"Hello, may I help you?"

"Yes, I was wondering, do you sell duck eggs?"

"Why yes, we do. Today we have white and chocolate. Which would you like?"

Good heavens - in all her research, Emily never told me duck eggs came in chocolate! Imagine those cookies! Oh, it must be a reference to color, like brown eggs...

"White will be fine. I'll need two dozen, if you have them."

"Certainly. Usually we have red velvet also, but those are sold out today."

(Pause) "You sell red velvet duck eggs?" (I am beginning to suspect that I have entered some alternate universe...)

"Duck eggs? (laughter) Oh, no, ducks never lay eggs in the winter. I thought you asked for cupcakes!"

*                *                *               *               *                *               *                *               *                 *

We did finally track down the necessary eggs. I thought the cookies were all delicious. The student who won first place tested whether the mouth of a dog is actually cleaner than a human's mouth, as is often theorized, and she had to swab the throats of ten different dogs to obtain her specimens. I truly don't recall the result, just the bite marks on her hands.

By far the most memorable project for me was this: Do rabbits fed different brands of food produce different amounts of waste? This adventurous young girl borrowed five rabbits from a local breeder and kept them in her basement for two months, giving them selected diets and then collecting and weighing their waste products every day. Also, because the rabbits got lonely, (don't ask, I have no idea how you know this) she had to play music for them all day long. Her frazzled mother described this ordeal to me in great detail. Suddenly the duck egg hunt didn't seem so bad.

So here's my offer - if anyone would like to borrow my goats, control their diets and measure their droppings, I can almost guarantee an A+ on a Science Fair project. I'll even sweeten the deal with a dozen duck egg cookies (in the spring, of course!)

Pizza, Pods and Pastries?

With all my recent concerns about comparing different types of seed pods for Em and Ellie,  I have encountered some criticism related to the amount of time and effort required to satisfy food cravings for the goats. Yes, they do prefer these specific pods, this brand of animal crackers, only certain varieties of apples (gala and yellow delicious, but never honeycrisp), and very particular weeds...but are goats really that different from humans? Or more specifically, teenage boys? One local event will help me prove my point.

While my own daughters were raking leaves for the elderly last weekend, several of the young men in their lives were engaged in another group activity - a long-planned event which truly could only have been contrived by teenage boys - what they referred to as "The Pizza Crawl."

Our small town inexplicably boasts nine pizza parlors, and apparently there was some disparity among the teens about which shop sold the best pizza. What happened next reminds me of Emily's 8th grade Science Fair project (a story for another day). This group of high school boys decided to settle the matter with scientific research. On Saturday they met at one end of town and worked their way on foot through all the pizza shops, each boy consuming a single slice (choice of any toppings) at every establishment and rating it for taste. Five miles, six hours, and nine slices later, the data was compiled to determine the best pizza in town. (I won't give it away, but there are a half-dozen boys with sore feet, full stomachs and empty wallets who might tell you if you ask nicely!)

Pizza, pods - you might as well eat the kinds you like best. Myself, I'm thinking about all the bakeries in town - wouldn't it be useful to determine which sells the tastiest sweets? Hmmm...anybody want to go with me on a "Pastry Crawl?"

Leaf-Raking with a Purpose

Today marked our church's "Annual Leaf-Raking Day" -  an opportunity for members to serve our neighbors by doing outdoor yard work for the elderly and disabled in our community. My family has participated in this event since the kids were old enough to hold a rake - after all, it is a wonderful opportunity to teach our children the value of hard work, set an example of altruism, promote exercise and fresh air, and have fun together. Sometimes there are even homemade cookies from grateful homeowners...

ok, ok - just like Pinocchio, my nose is growing - so I'll tell the truth. While other families might have raked for all those reasons, this year we had only one motivation for dragging ourselves out of bed early this morning to rake until our hands blistered...

Masquerading as rake-wielding volunteers provides the perfect excuse to scour yards all over town for - yes, you guessed it - edible seed pods for the goats!

Think about it - what better way to locate and map out new sources of pods without being arrested for trespassing? Really, Officer, I was just collecting snacks for my pet goats... (Unfortunately, when Emily and I collected about a thousand pods at the park last week -  we apparently got the wrong type. Oops...not only are they tough and indigestible - they are stinking up our garage so badly that we have to hold our breath out there or keep the garage door open.) What we are seeking are honey locust trees with their small, sweet pods, not regular locust trees which produce mammoth, malodorous monster pods. There is also one other kind of locust (yet unidentified by name) which drops miniature crunchy treats we refer to as "snack pods." Those also are acceptable. (Thanks to a good friend for discovering them.)

To achieve maximum coverage, my family split up into different raking groups instead of working together. My husband got the worst of this deal, as he was assigned to transport and supervise three middle school boys who had apparently never held a rake before and spent most of their day chasing each other around with the electric leaf-blower. Fortunately, Mike is a skilled raker and his group did manage to finish their assigned list of houses just before dark. Unfortunately, any pods they collected were dispersed by the blower...

Yes, it might seem like a lot of effort - but wouldn't you do it for your goats?

Pods: Part 2

SPOILER ALERT - if you haven't read the previous post ("Pods for the Goat Boys"), you should go back and read that first. Otherwise you will think I am a complete lunatic. Ok, ok, you might think that anyway...

Today after school Emily and I drove to the park where she had discovered a gigantic locust tree. What a bonanza - there were seed pods everywhere! The goats are set for the winter, no question, and there are still hundreds of pods hanging from the tree - we may go back next week and fill our bags again. Concerned about possible toxicity (as my car and garage now have a distinct and very strong vinegary smell), I looked up locust pods in our old World Book encyclopedia. With my daughters laughing at me (why don't you just google it, mom?), I learned two interesting facts. First, the waxy locust seeds inside the pods are not digestible but are excreted in their unchanged form. Yes, we had noticed that...Second, the apparently-sweet pulp of locust pods is sometimes ground into cattle feed, so I assume it is not a toxic substance. 

Snacktime, goats!!

Pods for the Goat Boys

The things we do for our pets...Today was bitter cold and windy, I had 22 items on my to-do list plus an extremely good book calling for me on the couch - but the goats were restless and wanted to be taken for a walk. How could I say no? Anyway, maybe I'd find a few more pods in the field...

Some people hunt for coins on the ground, or four-leaf clovers. In our family, the current treasure is what we call "pods," the dried brown seed pods which drop from our two honey locust trees in autumn, and which, we have discovered, are the goats' most favorite treat. Crunchy, fibrous, nutritious (I hope) - the goats munch with delight when they find one, so I got the idea - let's collect them and store them as a snack all winter!

Problem - the goats have already eaten most of them, and the trees are nearly bare. Every day I "walk the grid" of our yard like the forensic detectives in my favorite mystery series, eyes peeled for pods. Yesterday I found five, today only one. Rationing has gone into effect. I figured out that even if I give each goat only one pod per day, we will barely make it to Thanksgiving.

Not that pods are all I think about...despite what my friends said when I posted a sign on the church bulletin board looking for "pod donations." (None of my friends have locust trees, sadly.) There are holidays to plan for, and birthdays. We discovered three stray kittens living under our shed. My husband nearly cut his hand off in an accident at work. (Good thing I have all those first aid supplies left from the goats, since he refused to go to the hospital!) Emily passed her drivers license test but somehow I am unable to let her drive by herself. (I might have to follow her around in my van the first few weeks...) And this afternoon both my daughters were out with boys - life is moving a little too fast for me!

Emily and her friend pulled into the driveway just as I was heating up dinner. Out the window I saw them carefully unloading a large plastic tub from the back seat. "Mom!" called Emily. "Wait till you see what I got!" Together they carried this mysterious crate to the door - oh, please don't let it be another litter of stray kittens...I recalled that this boy lived near a farm - and then I knew. Oh my gracious - it's an orphaned baby goat who needs to be bottle-raised and she's brought it home - how can I say no? How can I say yes? Oh, I want to see how cute it is! Mind churning, I yanked open the door, and the two of them triumphantly displayed a tub overflowing with...pods. Pods! Apparently they had been climbing trees at a local park, discovered a gigantic locust tree, and spent the afternoon collecting hundreds of pods for the goats. (I think I like this boy!)

Although I am sort of missing that baby goat who needed me...

Trick-or-Treat with the Goat Boys!

Yes, Elliot was a bit humiliated to be dressed as a girl...His original costume was Batman, but the black cape just blended into his fur and he wouldn't keep the bat mask on...luckily we found an old Minnie Mouse costume in the dress-up bin downstairs. Here are a few possibilities for next year.

On Goat Neglect...

A few days ago Emily and I stopped at a local greenhouse to pick up some pumpkins. Out front was a collection of potted perennials for sale, including one scrubby-looking plant sporting a sign that read "Thrives on Neglect."

"Yeah, right," I scoffed, "Don't believe it. They said they same thing about goats, and look how that turned out."

"Actually, Mom," Emily countered, "I don't think we've ever neglected our goats, so how would you know?"

Right.

Last week the local weatherman warned of "unseasonable chills" and autumn's first frost. Concerned that the goats had not yet developed their thick winter coats, I worried about whether they could stay warm enough that night. I carefully swept out their shed, tightened the window and put down clean sleeping mats for them. Turning on their night light, I coaxed them into the shed, giving them a bucket of steaming hot water. Hopefully my efforts would be sufficient for the cold hours ahead.

Just before I went to bed, I decided to allay my worries and check on the boys one more time. Bundled up in a fleece jacket and mittens, I ducked through the small door into the shed - empty. Where on earth are my goats?? Did they leave the shed to pee and become disoriented by the cold, unable to find their way back to shelter? GOATS! WHERE ARE YOU?? 

Heart thumping, I turned on all the outdoor lights to search - and there they were - snuggled up next to each other, sound asleep in one of the flowerbeds. I was tempted to cover them with a blanket, but I refrained. Maybe Emily doesn't need to knit those four-sleeved sweaters I commissioned after all.

Bottle Babies No More?

Hard-to-feed babies are sort of my specialty...As a neonatal nurse for twenty-some years and a mother of premature twins, I can humbly say that I can coax or cajole almost any baby into taking a bottle. A four-pound preemie, a newborn with a bad heart and a weak suck, an infant who's been tube-fed for months and needs to learn to eat - I relish the challenge. Teaching our new little goats to take bottles last spring was an incredibly difficult task and a huge accomplishment, but bottle-feeding has since been one of the greatest rewards of our goat experience.

The fact that Em and Ellie, at nearly two years old, have suddenly decided to refuse their bottles, is making me crazy!

I know, I know...why on earth are two full-grown, seventy-five pound goats still taking bottles?? According to the manuals, goats should be weaned by eight weeks old, and my goats are now roughly eighty-six weeks old (had to do a few calculations there - see, Megan, there is a purpose for knowing basic math skills!). We kept meaning to stop, and we did cut down to one bottle a day, and only warm water, but it just never seemed like the right time.

There are practical reasons to bottle, of course - all that fluid flushes out the kidneys and helps prevent urinary calculi, plus Emerson's medicine gets dissolved in his bottle. Warm water aids in the digestive process as well. Truly, though, the reason I still bottle the boys is for those precious moments of morning bonding, for the blissful look on Emerson's face as his eyes go closed and he leans against me, for how Elliot chugs his bottle with such enthusiasm. It is our time to snuggle close, to forget about sharp needles and crusty skin sores and bleeding feet.

The past week has suddenly been a bottle struggle. I've done nothing differently, yet they both turn away and refuse. I am not giving up yet - this morning I got half a bottle into Em by pinning him between my knees and prying his mouth open. Elliot is stronger and harder to catch, although if I can force the bottle in his mouth he will usually suck it right down. Maybe it's time, but I'll keep trying a few more days. If you've ever bottle-fed a goat, you would understand.

A Shot, a Bath, and a Run Down the Hill

All in all, not a bad goat day. We trimmed hooves, gave Elliot an injection, and scrubbed both goats in lime sulfur again. The boys are once more stained a greenish-yellow hue and stink almost worse than the chicken manure the farmer across the road spread on his fields today, but at least their feet are beautiful. Hoof trimming is one of those tasks which creates a great feeling of satisfaction, the difference between "before" and "after" is so extreme. It's like when you clean your refrigerator after neglecting the chore for way too long, and you open the door to - wow! Did we get new appliances or something?

Last week our vet sedated Ellie to perform skin biopsies; the samples were sent to a goat pathologist at a laboratory in an Ivy-League institution. Finally the results are back - inconclusive. No mites were found in any of the specimens, although there was tissue damage suggestive of mite activity. Fortunately there was no evidence of any dread auto-immune or genetic diseases, and sometimes skin problems in goats are caused by zinc deficiency, but it seems the elusive mites are still our number-one suspect. (Yes, the goats do get supplemental zinc...)

So we will continue the lime sulfur baths for another few weeks and see what happens.

This afternoon I really should have cleaned out the refrigerator, but instead I took the goats on a walk. I opened the gate for them, and Elliot took off down the hill in ecstasy, flinging himself sideways into the air in great gleeful leaps as he hurtled toward the most wonderful weeds in the world. Moments like these are the reason I have goats.

(Well, that and the fact that I haven't yet convinced my friend Theresa that two goats would be the perfect addition to her backyard menagerie. I think I read somewhere that the presence of goats around chickens can increase egg production by fifty percent...)

Rub-a-Dub Goat?

Ever feel bored with the daily routine? Wishing for some excitement in your life? Toss out those brochures for bungee jumping, para-sailing, and cave diving. Instead, for an unforgettable experience, consider giving a goat a bath in lime sulfur dip.

While we wait for skin biopsy results, I am also watching the weather forecast for the next warm day. The lime sulfur bath, you see, is a weekly treatment...and here's how you do it.

First, gather your supplies. You will need disposable clothing, so raid your spouse's closet for old work shirts and ripped jeans. Make them fit somehow. Old shoes, too, and a large trash bag for everything when you're done. Locate a few throwaway sheets and blankets, a bucket, a stiff scrub brush, rubber gloves, and protective goggles.

Dilute your lime sulfur (a thick, noxious-smelling yellow goo) in a gallon of warm water. Then, wearing your designated clothing and protective gear, secure the goat. If you are fortunate enough to have a goat already sedated for a skin biopsy, your job is much simpler. Simply lather his unconscious body head to tail in the sticky mixture, making sure to work it into every crease and crevice until he is entirely yellow. Do not rinse it off. Be sure to get out of his way before he wakes up, as the mixture will dry slowly. You will be tempted to comfort him as he stumbles around disoriented, but restrain yourself. He is making a vain attempt to get away from the horrendous odor which is actually himself, so there is nothing you can do. Save yourself. If you pet him with bare hands, you will have to cancel all your engagements for the next few days and call in sick to work. Yes, the smell is that bad, and yes, it does stain your skin neon yellow. Trust me on this.

If you have the misfortune of then bathing a second, non-sedated goat, your task is more difficult. (Sound familiar, Emerson?) You will require one person to restrain the goat while you attempt to scrub him with the gooey mixture. At first he may seem cooperative, thinking he is simply getting a massage, but once he realizes what you are doing he will kick and buck madly.Work quickly and be careful not to let him knock over the bucket. (It will stain your driveway, and you will have to always park your car over the area so your husband doesn't notice.) Hold your breath if the smell gets too bad. most of all, remember this - when you finish and finally release the agitated goat, hurl your body out of the way before the goat can vigorously shake himself off, like a wet dog emerging from a muddy pond. (Right, I made this mistake once...)

And if the stuff gets on your skin, don't bother taking a shower. All you will accomplish is staining your tub yellow.

Anyone interested in helping with the next bath?

Is There a Goat Planet?

A friend of mine recently slipped on a walnut while training for a marathon, badly spraining her ankle just two weeks before the big race. A family we know had to cancel a long-awaited vacation when they found their basement flooded on the morning of their planned departure. A teen I know failed her driver's test, again. Some days you just want to go back to bed and start over - or, as we say in our house, "Someone needs a visit to the Bunny Planet."

One of our most beloved childrens' authors is Rosemary Wells,  creator of Max and Ruby, McDuff, and our favorite tiny trilogy entitled Voyage to the Bunny Planet, in which Wells' delightful characters experience one woe after another (getting a shot, being sick in front of the whole class, cold liver chili for dinner) until they are mercifully rescued by Bunny Queen Janet and transported to her planet for "the day that should have been." (If you are now questioning my sanity, take a trip to the library and you will understand - you are never too old for these wonderful stories!)

On Monday, Elliot needed a visit to the Bunny Planet.

When the vet pulled into the driveway, he hid behind the shed. She found him, then stuck a big needle in his hip. He got all woozy-feeling, jumped up on a bench and promptly fell off. By the time he woke up later on a blanket in the driveway, he had gotten seven shots, five deep skin biopsies, and ten stitches. His belly and three of his legs had been shaved, and he had been scrubbed all over with a foul-smelling yellow goop which was air-drying in fluorescent crusts on his fur. He awoke wet, sticky, sore and hung-over. This was not the day he wanted.

We tried - really - though as anyone who's ever used lyme sulfer dip on an animal knows - you truly have to love your pets to be anywhere near them once it's applied. Although it is renowned for its anti-bacterial, anti-fungal and anti-parasitic qualities, the odor is ferocious and the neon yellow stains clothing and skin permanently.

So now we wait. Possibly the antibiotic and steroid and Vitamin B6 injections will help, and a goat pathologist in another state will microscopically examine his tissue samples. At least for now, the cone is off. For Elliot, that alone is a voyage to the Bunny Planet. A few extra treats and a big hug from Emily help too. She's not that worried about turning yellow - after all, her hands are already stained from the blukote spray we use on his sores. Yellow, blue - maybe she'll just turn green after this!

Read My Lips!

This weekend my daughters and I attended one of our favorite events - the annual book sale at our local library. With hundreds of books for less than a dollar each, we found several treasures. Megan's best deal was a hardback fashion manual claiming to contain "100 little-known, free beauty tips," while Emily found the complete works of Ms. Dickinson, her favorite poet who shares her name. Back home, I left them devouring their books while I went out to check on the goats.

Elliot ambled up beside me, rubbing his face briskly against my leg. Along with his other skin ailments, he has a fungus-like rash around his mouth, and he seems to find relief from the itching by rubbing it against the rough denim of our jeans. (Yes, it does leave a bit of a slimy residue, but how can we deny Ellie that small measure of comfort?)

Inside, I headed to the bathroom to wash my hands (always a good idea after close personal contact with the goats these days) - but what on earth?? Megan stood in front of the mirror, vigorously rubbing a dry washcloth back and forth across her mouth!  Horrors - could Ellie's itchy fungus-face be contagious to humans?

"Megan," I gasped, "What's wrong? Why are you doing that?"

She stopped rubbing and gave me one of those squinty-eyed teenager looks. "Duh, Mom, I'm exfoliating my lips, of course." She nodded toward the open page of her new beauty book.

Well, it does clear up one mystery - now I know how Ellie got to be such a beautiful goat!

Hot Buckets

Another photo from the past - the pre-cone days, the phase when the goats regularly consumed cardboard boxes (no idea why Ellie is wearing this one) and when they ate hay from two red buckets, instead of the larger tubs we use now. Ellie used to stuff his face down to the bottom of the bucket, where the tastiest hay apparently went, but he kept getting the metal handle stuck on his head, so we stopped using the buckets for hay.

The buckets have a new use now - a handy replacement for the teapot. The boys could  slurp down all the hot water from the teapot in a minute - we needed a larger container for steaming hot water - something like the bucket, and somehow it became "hot bucket" - as in "Come back to your pen, you stupid goats - Apples! Sunflower seeds! Hot bucket!"

And then we spontaneously break out into the "hot bucket" jingle, adapted from the television commercial for the pocket-shaped frozen/microwaveable sandwiches ("hot pockets"). It wasn't even that funny the first fifty or so times, but still we sing...Sometimes you have to find the humor anywhere you can.

Days Gone By...

Sometimes I have to scroll through last year's photos, reminders of the days when all was right in our goat world, when our biggest challenges were learning how to master routine hoof trimming and building a shed. Those were the days when I jokingly lamented about mountains of droppings to sweep up and goat spit on my clothing, as if such were the key challenges faced by goat owners. These were days of blissful innocence - ignorance, really - before we learned the hard lessons of goating. We thought that being "banded" (aka neutered) and having horn scurs burned off were the absolute worst things to befall our babies. We were so wrong.

New to goats, we were unaware of the incalculable threat of urinary calculi, a wicked malady which strikes male goats - sudden, painful, and usually fatal. Emerson was lucky. And not a day passes that I don't stand outside and watch him "pee" - always alert for the insidious signs of a recurrence. Just as we didn't know how deadly those unseen mineral deposits could be, we never dreamed the havoc microscopic mites could wreak on our goats, our lives. We never guessed Em and Ellie would chew holes in their own flesh, desperate to rid themselves of the agonizing, burrowing parasites which defy all attempts at eradication.

This weekend I gave three injections to the goats. They hurt. We restrain Ellie to the fence and scrub dirt and fetid pus from the wounds in his feet while he cries. One of his dew claws was so badly damaged that it actually detached from his foot. I don't know the implications of this; for now I just re-apply a clean dressing each day and cover it with a baby sock. He kicks wildly to get away. My husband held him upside down while we picked scabs from his belly, then bathed him with hypoallergenic baby shampoo and betadine. We left his cone off for an hour - an optimistic trial - and he spent the whole time madly scratching and biting himself, refusing even a walk to his beloved "Field of Weeds." The cone is back on, and I look away when I see him struggling to find a comfortable sleeping position with his neck held stiffly by the plastic. I sit with him, but he moves away, mistrustful. Mine are hands which cause him pain. I blink back tears as he turns from me.

The only good news right now is that his brother, Emerson, is "cone-free" for two days and seems much improved. Not 100%, but better than before. I keep looking at him - he's been "coned" so long I forgot how adorable he really is. As for Elliot, we keep treating, we keep trying, we keep hoping. These are tough decisions. I guess nobody ever said goats are easy.

Actually, that's exactly what they said. Maybe some goats are. (Although, I doubt it.)

Behavior Modification for the Goat Boys

Goats, as we all know, are stubborn and unpredictable creatures. When my husband recently fenced a small area of the field behind our house - a field overgrown with every weed the goats love and one of their favorite places to be taken on walks - I was certain Em and Ellie would be delighted. I planned to leave them out there for hours each day as they chomped and munched their way to full rumens. Dismayed when the goats instead cried pitifully when we introduced them to their new habitat, I embarked on a new plan of behavior modification. I would train them to love the fenced area, that was that.

Yesterday the girls and I took the goats down to the field, first allowing them to graze the area just outside the fence. Then, using a bit of cunning and a mound of animal crackers, we lured them inside the fence. Same exact weeds, only thing different is the lack of freedom to roam onto the road, for example. Just keep eating, boys...

My daughters and I started walking nonchalantly up towards the house. Instant panic!! Hysteria!! Our abandoned pets began hurling themselves against the metal prison, bleating in terror at the situation. First Emerson, then Elliot started running in frantic circles inside the fence perimeter, around and around as they cried  for rescue. 

"Just keep walking," I told Emily. "Once we're out of sight, I'm sure they'll calm down." From inside the house we watched their berserk behavior for five minutes - ten - fifteen - with no signs of abatement. Finally - fearful they would collapse from exhaustion or heart failure - I grabbed a paperback novel and stomped down to the field. I hurled a plastic chair over the fence (both goats moved just in time so nobody got injured) and squeezed through the gate. Those crazy critters waited until I sat down, then turned away and began yanking up mouthfuls of weeds, perfectly content. Apparently it is the loneliness, not the fence, that they mind.

My book, one of a series by a new favorite author, kept me on the edge of that plastic chair until the cliffhanger ending. Yes, I believe the behavior modification is going well. I just need to make a quick trip to the library for more books...

Veterinary Care in the Driveway

Photos are deceiving. Here you see a young girl carefully giving medical care to her goat, who stands calmly with his collar latched around the fence...a model of caprine cooperation.  Don't be fooled. What the photo fails to show is the frantic goat (here momentarily paralyzed by the camera flash) bucking up two legs at a time and thrashing an occasional foot through the chain links of the fence, or the mother who sprayed half her arm blue while attempting to apply antibiotic spritz to the festering wounds now neatly covered in baby socks. Missing is the hoof-shaped bruise on my arm (same color as the blukote spray!) from when we struggled to get him on the bench, as well as a spitty wad of what was originally a new roll of gauze, until the other goat sneaked up behind Emily and snatched it from the supply bucket - it took both of us to pry it from his throat after he started choking.

This weekend my daughters went on an overnight college visit, two days packed with information sessions, interviews and tours. When I picked them up, I looked eagerly at Emily, but she shook her head. I groaned.

"Are you sure? I thought the website said they allowed students to bring pets."

"Yeah, Mom," she answered, stowing her sleeping bag in the trunk. "I checked the handbook. Student pets are limited to small non-carnivorous fish. No goats."

Maybe if we dyed them orange and squished them into a fish tank...could we pass them off as oversize goldfish? Worth a try...

Entrapment, and Escape from the Delicious Field

Thud!! Crash!! Clatter!! Bang!! What on earth??  My usual routine is to lock the goats on our deck with their breakfast while I clean out their shed - a practice requiring a certain level of trust as I cannot see them from the yard - so when I heard all that commotion I dropped my broom and dashed for the deck. What had they broken now??

What I saw was Emerson, or rather Emerson's legs, thrashing about in an unfathomable yet frantic situation - he had apparently knocked over one of our heavy white wrought-iron chairs and then somehow gotten one of the chair legs stuck up under the cone at his neck. In his struggles the cone and his protective cloth collar (not in this photo) were now covering his face, adding to his panic at being blind and seemingly impaled on a chair leg. How many times have I told him to stay off the chairs?? I got him untangled and sat with him while he calmed down. Crazy goat!

Fast forward several hours to late afternoon and a trip to what we call "The Delicious Field." This is a weedy thicket below the house filled with scrumptious wild shrubs, poison ivy, thistles - everything the goats adore. In the past we have taken them down there for supervised snacking (they would leap in delight each time!), so recently my husband erected a fence around part of the field, enabling the goats fill their bellies unattended.

That's right - now they hate it. As soon as they realize our destination is "The Delicious Field," they cry and strain against their leashes, refusing to go anywhere near the now-fenced prison. Apparently the horror of being separated from their peoples overrides even the tastiest forage. Yesterday I dragged them down there, determined that they would learn to cope and appreciate the money we had spent on fencing. They cried as I drove off to pick up Emily from tennis practice, and were both still crying as we pulled back into the driveway later. I rushed inside to pull a casserole from the oven before going out back to bring up the sorrowful goats, but when I looked out the window - only Elliot was in the fence. How can this be? The gate is still locked - where is Emerson??

Confused,frantic, I called for my family members to help look, but apparently no one heard me. I scanned the lower fields, the garden - nothing. Would he have gone to the creek? Was he stolen? (As if I could be so lucky...) Finally I spotted him - standing plaintively in the upper driveway next to my car. I know my peoples were just here...Of course as soon as I ran to get him (only a few feet from the road), he got wily and started running off, and when I eventually caught him I had to hoist him up and carry him to the pen as I had no leash or collar with me.

"Why didn't you come out and help me?" I demanded, out of breath, of my husband, who had been sitting by the front window at the computer.

"Well, I did wonder why you were carrying him across the front yard," he answered, as though I might have been hauling about a thrashing, 63-pound animal just for fun. An investigation revealed a small gap in the fence where a determined animal could have squeezed through...so the Delicious Field is now off-limits until Mike has time to repair the fence. Or maybe forever...

Stinky Feet - or Goats in Socks?

In the never-ending nightmare which has become our goat experience, we have recently added a new fashion accessory - baby socks. Unable to bite their behinds and bellies (because of the cones), Em and Ellie have taken to biting their feet and creating festering, foul-smelling open wounds. "Stinky feet" is no joke around our house. Now our daily routine includes cleaning and re-dressing the wounds, then covering them with stretchy cotton baby socks and tape. This is fairly traumatic for everyone involved - when the goats see me coming they run and hide behind the shed. (I usually find them - sorry boys, I have years of experience with hide-and-seek!)

Incredibly frustrated and after yet another consultation with my vet, today we embarked on a new treatment plan.This attempt includes a series of weekly injections (she gave the shots today, I'll give the rest) along with a topical preparation.The boys also had their feet shaved and scrubbed and got a shot of antibiotics.

Sensitive to the fact that I am close to losing my mind, my vet gently offered to try and find another home for our goats. I laughed. Who on earth would want a pair of crazy goats with a contagious and incurable skin disease?  Not to worry, she assured me - there are compassionate people out there willing to adopt goats with special needs.

Maybe they will adopt me.

All I Want...is O.P.G.

The other day a woman came to my door. She had driven past the house, noticed the goats, and heard them bawling so hysterically that she actually turned around and came back, convinced that one of them must be grievously injured or caught in the fence, so agonized were their cries. She wanted to alert me to their distress.

No, I explained, I was just out there a few minutes ago. The goats are fine. Recently their "lonely" calls have changed from a pleasant "maaahhh - come play with us?" to a manic, heart-stopping shriek that did indeed bring me running in panic several times before I got wise to their scheme. "Helppppp us!! Our water is cold, our hay is stale, no peoples are paying attention to us! We are abandoned and dying out here!!" Talk about the goats who cried wolf...

I know several families who have goats. Some are pets, some are raised for show or sale, some are pampered (ok, those are mine) while some are so neglected it borders on abuse. Here's what I've noticed, though - no one else has goats like these. Most goats just eat, drink, enjoy attention when it's given, and generally mind their own business. Also, I've never met anyone else whose goats require cones. (That's right, Elliot now has one too...)

O.P.G. That's it. My list is written. All I want for Christmas is...Other People's Goats.

Never Trust a Goat!

He may look sweet and innocent...but don't let the baby blue eyes fool you. He's a scoundrel. Recently our family went away for a weekend, and I warily entrusted the goats to a new pet-sitter as our regular sitter (a 4H farm girl who raises goats herself) was unavailable. A bit nervous, I carefully penned three pages of instructions about the care of the goats - feeding schedule, daily medication doses, emergency vet number, common goat emergencies etc. I found space at the end to scribble a note about the cats as well as our contact information and cell phones, then marked the most important parts in red. It would only be a weekend, after all - as long as they followed my directions, all should be fine.

I only forgot one critical piece of information. NOTE: Read the instructions in the kitchen before going to the goat pen. Apparently, my new caregiver and her helpers (wise move - bringing reinforcements!) brought the papers into the pen with them, intending to read them step-by-step as they measured out grain and medications. I should have warned them that, after I get the mail every day, I sometimes give the boys an envelope to share. Spying what he likely thought was a yummy snack, Elliot snatched all the papers right out of his feeder's hand and quickly slurped them up - chew - swallow - gone. (And he didn't even share with Emerson!) Smooth move, Ellie. Oh, just give us buckets of grain and four apples a day and let us out to run free...Reminds me of when we were younger and my sisters and I would hide the note for the babysitter and tell her we were allowed to stay up until midnight...somehow she never believed us.

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice...

Anyone following Emerson's cone saga will recall that we removed his cone two days ago to see whether he could now be trusted not to bite giant sores around his tail - here's your answer. After just one evening unrestricted, he was again bent around like a pretzel, his nether regions raw and bleeding once more. The cone returned. In order to protect the sensitive skin on the back of his neck, Emily and I improvised this fashionable "collar" from the sleeve of an old sweatshirt. (Isn't he so handsome?!) It also gives me something to hang onto when we attempt to smear antibiotic cream on his buttocks twice a day. (This may sound soothing and innocuous, but his frantic reaction would only be justified if we were rubbing acid on his bare skin. I could show you bruises...)  Today we are also planning a new treatment for the itching, a rub-in powder supposedly guaranteed to rid goats of biting pests, but also so toxic to humans we will don full hazmat gear to avoid accidental skin contact or inhalation.

After we wrestled Emerson back into the cone, I leaned against the fence to catch my breath. I didn't want anyone to see me crying, but sometimes the frustration overwhelms me. Each new day brings another goat nightmare. I think of giving them away, but with their seemingly-incurable and contagious skin ailment, who would take them? We can't even eat them, since by waiting until they reached three months old before neutering them, we ensured that their meat would have an unpleasant gamey and "testosterone-infused" taste (or so all the books warn).  The only upside to goat care right now is that their pen has a delectably fragrant aroma, since my husband recently cleaned out the garage...

Last fall when I harvested my garden-grown spices, I filled several glass jars with fresh basil and oregano, then stowed the additional dried plants in grocery bags on a top shelf in the garage, restocking my jars as needed. Apparently my husband discovered my "spices stash" the other day and decided to feed all my dried plants to the goats. After all, he reasoned, he does not store automotive tools in the kitchen, so why was I keeping foodstuffs in his garage? (This is the same garage so full of old motors, rusted-out snowmobiles and decrepit car parts that there is not even enough space for my vehicle, not even during a blizzard. Yes, that's what shovels are for...) I was rather concerned about the effect of so much basil on the goats' digestive systems, but they seemed to love the taste...

And this led to a horrible, dreadful, nasty idea...I know that recipe is in here somewhere...aha! Page 307 - Basil Goat Curry! I'm sure I could grow some fresh thyme and coriander - maybe if we fed them enough herbs we could eat them after all!

Another Bath Day

One of the last remaining days before school starts...hot and humid...a perfect day to take the kids to the pool or even just watch a movie in an air-conditioned theater. But of course, there are other ways to spend an afternoon.

Emerson was delighted to have his cone removed after two weeks - unfortunately the plastic was causing sore areas on the back of his neck. He is on a trial period to see whether he can stop biting his tail area and remain "cone-free." If we need to re-apply the cone, we'll have to modify it and pad the edges.

I am discouraged that even after all our recent intensive treatments, the skin problems have not abated. Elliot got a full bath today, and we found several new itchy and raw areas. Emerson just got localized scrubbing to a sore spot on one leg. Last night we went to a local agricultural fair and saw dozens of pristine goats waiting to be shown and then sold. No itchy, flaky coats, no bloody butts, no crusty noses. I just can't figure out what we're doing wrong. 

After we admired the show goats, we visited the petting zoo, and there I found the sweetest tiny goat who snuggled in my lap and listened to all my frustrations. I wonder if she's for sale...

Adventures at Farm Camp

Meet Sunny,  one of the main attractions at a local "Farm Camp" my daughter Megan attended as a Junior Counselor this week. (Petunia is the smaller goat inside the fenced area she shares with one other goat and two pigs; Sunny runs free around the property because he does not get along with the other animals.) Tonight, to close out a marvelous week of learning, nature and outdoor fun, families were invited to a program and potluck supper at the farm. Because this is the type of camp where parents would bring potluck dishes like fresh salsa, quinoa-cranberry salad and homemade applesauce, I knew my standard offering of box-mix brownies would not suffice. Imagine my delight to locate an impressive recipe for chocolate zucchini brownies which contained not only a green garden vegetable but also plain yogurt and whole wheat flour. (Sure to impress!) Before heading over to the side field for the program, I proudly deposited my brownies on the designated "Dessert Table" in the yard, nestling them between a pair of scrumptious-looking homemade peach pies. Mmmm...

I cannot pretend my mind did not wander as the camp director read us a story about caterpillars. What an amazing place! I wonder how much that fencing cost? I cannot believe all these parents paid money to have their children work in the garden and muck out goat pens all week! 

Time to eat! A herd of children ran off to get in line for food, but as I was still pushing my stiff knees up from sitting in the grass, I heard a cacophony of yells, moans, "Oh no, Sunny!" Apparently as we were singing and dancing the butterfly hokey-pokey, Sunny had helped himself to the desserts, feasting from tins and pie plates before knocking them to the ground for the chickens to finish. There he stood, one foot in the center of a peach pie, munching away. Only one lonely dessert remained, untouched, on the table. Were my zucchini brownies so awful that even a goat wouldn't eat them?

Actually, as now the only dessert at the picnic, those brownies were the hit of the party - not a single one left. Take that, goat!

The Cone - Part 2

The latest in goat fashion - "the cone" is both serviceable and trendy, and now Emerson boasts not one, but two, of these sporty accessories. (Observant readers may have noticed the slightly different style in today's photo...) The objective, of course, is to keep his mouth from being able to reach his rear end, where he has bitten and chewed gross bleeding sores in his flesh, and allow my multi-step wound treatment time to heal the sensitive area. His original cone, purchased at a local pet store, was a success for about 36 hours, until he learned first how to contort himself around the plastic to reach his behind, and then how to undo the velcro straps altogether. This larger cone, veterinary-quality and on loan from our canine friend Kelly, features a three-strap system with supplementary adjustable ties. It took Emily and I half a box of animal crackers and at least twenty minutes to "install" it on him. It reminded me of long-ago early Christmas mornings desperately trying to assemble complicated toys, those tense moments when it was unclear whether the frustrated parent or the impatient toddler would go completely berserk first.Only time will tell, but it has been on all day and the only thing he's been chewing are his brother's ears and my shoelaces. Well, I still didn't get the laundry done, but maybe I accomplished something today.

Conehead

What to do when your goat, infested with nasty microscopic mites which burrow tunnels under his skin, keeps compounding the problem by gnawing holes in his own behind? We're treating for the mites, I've tried every skin care product available in local pharmacies and on the internet, and we've taken turns sitting outside with him smacking his nose and yelling, "Stop biting your butt!" These fearsome open wounds will never heal until he leaves them alone - time for the last resort. Introducing every pet's worst nightmare...the Cone of Shame...

Unfortunately, the cone worn properly was ineffective, as he could still twist himself backwards and bite his tail. Goats are all about improvisation, though, and twenty-four hours later the cone is still intact (a miracle!) and Emerson  cannot reach his teeth to his backside. Maybe there is hope for us yet. Mangy creatures! And again I ask myself, why did we get goats??

Dad Strikes Again...

Working until well past midnight last evening, I entrusted the task of putting the goats to bed to my capable teenage daughters, confident that even if they "forgot" to wash the supper dishes, at least they could competently look after Em and Ellie.

I was wrong.

Rounding the corner of the garage this morning and spying the absolute disaster that was the goat pen, I stopped short. Emily (still sipping her morning tea on the deck) avoided my pointed stare.

"Well," I growled, "it looks like Dad has struck again."

"I'm sorry, Mom!" She shrugged apologetically. "I couldn't stop him..."

Warily we approached the tangled jungle overtaking the ordinarily-tidy  fenced pen in the driveway. Huge mounded piles of thorny weeds, scattered by hooves, sodden from the night's rain and intermingled with piles of goat droppings - chucking these over the fence would add an extra twenty minutes to the morning clean-up. Men!

My husband means well, really - after all, he sees me picking weeds across the road for the goats; I have even brought home bags of weeds from other people's houses. The difference is, however, that I bring the goats weeds that they like, while Mike brings them weeds he thinks they should like. I have shown him exactly the things they eat - oak leaves, but not sweetgum, crabgrass (but never yard grass), black-eyed susans, these tall weeds, this brush, none of the purple stuff...yet like the parent determined to coax a child to eat brussel sprouts by repeatedly serving them at every meal, my dear husband hauls vast quantities of unacceptable weeds into the goat pen, leaving them for me to dispose of the next morning, after the goat boys have rejected them and stomped them into a messy pile.Once he even bagged all the grass clippings while mowing and dumped them, mini-haystacks, in front of the shed. After all, he reasoned, goats should eat grass...that time I made him clean up the mess.

Need a shed built? Fencing installed? Goats held down for hoof trimming? My husband has no equal. I guess when it comes to weeds, though, some things just take a mother's touch.

How to Give a Goat a Bath

In our continued quest to conquer the bizarre skin problems which have plagued our goats for the past seven months and defied repeated attempts at eradication, we recently consulted a goat specialist and embarked on an agressive treatment program which includes antibiotics, steroids, selenium injections (to boost the immune system), anti-parasite medication at some ten times the labelled dose, and  - this is the best part - weekly baths with betadine scrub. The aftermath of the veterinary visit is a story for another day (ever taken a rectal temperature on a distessed goat by flashlight?) - but today was the designated "Bath Day" so that is today's topic.

As Em and Ellie run for cover at even one raindrop, I was dreading the prospect of bathing them. How on earth would we accomplish this? I don't own any basin large enough to contain a goat. Could we sedate them? I considered putting them in the bathroom shower, but the glass shower door is likely not hoof-resistant and that seemed a recipe for a bloodbath. Eventually our brainstorming brought us to the invention of the "mini-pen," using some portable dog fencing to create a tiny enclosure just large enough to contain two people and one goat. All we needed now was a bowl of betadine solution, scrub brushes, gallons of warm water and a few extra helpers outside the mini-pen to hand things to us and feed the goat an occasional treat.

Unbelievably, we got them soaked, scrubbed, rinsed and dried without too much trauma. There was a slight delay when they drank the entire first bucket of hot water (better than a teapot!) but Elliot was curious enough to venture into the pen first and he didn't really seem to mind it, not even when we doused him with water. Apparently it's only cold water that bothers goats - too bad rain isn't warm...As we rubbed in the foam with scrub-brushes, his eyes drooped closed and he relaxed - I think I'm getting a massage, brother, this must be one of those spa places people talk about!

What better way to spend a sunny afternoon? Now their coats are so silky-soft, never mind that Emily and I are also completely disinfected. Life is good.

My Kids Eat Weeds!

Recently a relative sent me an article describing how a California airport procured a herd of 400 goats for two weeks to clear all the weeds and brush from a runway area prone to forest fires. For this service they paid the owners of these goats nearly $15,000.

With college tuition looming in our future, my mind immediately went to the critters in our yard. I could cram them in the minivan and drive to our local airport - surely they could be useful clearing weeds from a runway or two - what would someone pay for the use of Em and Ellie for a few weeks? (Believe me, anyone with 400 goats has my sympathy - how can anyone get all that hoof trimming done??)

The main problem here is this - my goats don't like most weeds. They are more selective than finicky toddlers who need their sandwiches cut in triangles, never squares...My goats love poison ivy, raspberry bushes, lilies, hosta and lilacs, but they disdain ordinary grass, dandelions, nettles and most of the nuisance plants I want them to eat. Often we pull great bunches of weeds and drop them in the goat pen, but usually the boys just pick at them, carefully selecting just a few tasty bites before wandering away. We don't eat this stuff, silly people! Let us out so we can find our own!!

There is one tree in our woods which the goats just love - I have no idea what it is but the leaves are apparently quite palatable as the goats always run to it when we take them for walks. Unfortunately this plant has a rather nasty side effect, which is why we have unofficially named it "the diarrhea tree." Anyone who accidentally lets them near this pulls cleanup duty the next day...

During a recent visit from my botanist sister, I noticed Emily bringing an armful of weeds up from the garden. Instead of dropping them off in the pen, however, she took them inside and began to saute them in garlic and butter. Though I have often been accused of spoiling the goats, I thought this was going a bit too far, but she informed me that her aunt advised her to prepare these weeds (which I have been fighting for years in the garden) for our dinner! Amaranth, or pigweed, is supposedly loaded with minerals and protein and boasts all sorts of health benefits. I have to admit, it did have a succulent flavor, and we'll certainly never run out - but if I ever see Emily harvesting leaves from the diarrhea tree, I'll just order a pizza for dinner!

Another Use for a Beach Umbrella?

Add to your list of necessities for goat owners - along with plastic tubs for hay, plenty of soda bottles, and a durable teapot - we have discovered that every goat family could benefit from a large beach umbrella. Most of us have one in the back corner of the basement anyway - but why use it just one week a year for that seaside vacation when the goats can borrow it every time it rains?

On sunny days, Em and Ellie take care of their personal elimination needs outside...The yard is our potty! Rainy days, however, create a challenge. Rather than chance even one raindrop impacting their fragile coats, they cower in the shed all day, using a large plastic tray (filled with wood shavings and discarded hay) as their litter box. This system worked well when the goats (and hence, the volume of their waste) were small, but as they have grown, the tray fills up so quickly that we simply dread the task of cleaning it. 

Enter the umbrella. The procedure is simple. Venture outside in the rain about every three hours, using treats to coax the goats out of the shed so they can perform necessary functions while staying dry under the umbrella. Pat the goat and compliment him to encourage future compliance. (Good job, Ellie! Good peepee!) Be sure to return the umbrella to the garage to dry before the next use. Change out of your own wet clothes. Nothing to it!

Next time it's raining like a monsoon outside and you're starting to get bored with your paperback book and your hot chocolate, and you just wish you could be somewhere else - be glad you're not in my backyard, desperately urging two malcontent goats to urinate before you're completely drenched.

Mostly, I'm so grateful we don't live in one of those countries where the rainy season lasts three months. Maybe they just don't have goats there. 

   

Why You Should Never Run Ahead of a Goat...

Taking the goats for their evening walk is a complex process. Two people are required (though three is ideal). Below our house is the perfect spot for a leisurely stroll - a meandering creek bordered by a smorgasbord of trees, weeds and poison ivy. My husband mows a wide path through the tall grass to create a maze through which no goat can escape except at each end.The goats munch along the trail, filling their  bellies while the girls and I wander behind them. It's a bit like Dorothy's "yellow brick road" to the magical Emerald City.

The real challenge, however, is getting there. To reach the path, we need to lure the goats past the vegetable garden, the driveway and a pile of scrap metal. We devised a system where we open their gate, then run down the hill, shrieking and waving our arms in an attempt to convince the goats that we know something they don't - that they should follow us past all those temptations to get to wherever we are going. Usually it works well. Em and Ellie hurtle down the hill after us, leaping sideways and kicking up their feet in glee.

Occasionally something goes horribly wrong.

Recently Megan and I decided to walk the goats. She is more agile and a faster runner than I am, so she disappeared into the maze while I was still halfway down the hill, goats chasing behind me. Oh no! Megan got there first! She might eat all the good weeds! Speed up, brother! Faster! Desperate to reach the woods, Elliot plowed into me from behind, the full force of his seventy-pound caprine bulk impacting the back of my right knee, catapulting me into the air as he hurtled past. It was several minutes before I could haul myself upright, remember who I was and why I was lying in a field, and stagger to the trail where Megan was supervising two happily-munching goats.

"Megan!" I admonished my daughter. "Why didn't you come help me? Didn't you hear me calling for you when Ellie bowled me over?"

"Oh, was that you?" she asked. "I wondered what that loud whooomph sound was!"

And once again I ask myself, why do we have goats?

All the Way Home...

Nothing makes your pets appreciate you like going on vacation for a week. I did feel guilty leaving them home, but not even I could face seven hours in a minivan with a pair of malcontents plus I'm fairly certain they would hate the beach. Eek! Our feet are getting wet! We despise this dune grass! Where are all the trees??

Still, we missed them, and when we arrived home I sat in the yard with Em and Ellie and tried to tell them all about our trip. Mostly, though, I just wanted a snack and a long nap. But why are you so hungry and tired, Mommy?

Ok, boys, here's why I'm tired. We had decided to get up at six this morning to beat the weekend traffic on the way home. So, when Daddy shook me awake, I stumbled out of bed and headed toward the kitchen for coffee. Odd that it would be pitch dark - I wanted one last look at the ocean - why is sunrise so late today? And why does every other clock in the house read four o'clock?? 

Munching on cereal, Mike tried to argue with me, because after all the bedroom clock did say six, but I was certain I was right. I guess when he set the alarm the night before, he must have advanced the time setting accidentally. That's why I'm sleepy, boys...

And why are you so hungry? Well, in my foggy state I started throwing last-minute things in bags to go down to the van, making sure to pack a bag of snacks for the trip as Mike does not like to stop for any food that involves getting off the interstate or even crossing to the other side of the road. I sent that bag down with one of the kids to put in the passenger seat for easy access, as well as a small final bag of trash from the kitchen and bathroom for the curb. You guessed it...

About three hours into the trip, I reached down for the snack bag - a bag which actually contained soggy paper towels, apple cores, moldy grapes and used band-aids...oh, no. All I can hope is that the men who collected our trash are enjoying their treats!

It is good to be home.

A Farewell (with love)

When we got home this evening, the goats were lunging against the gate. Unused to more than a few hours without attention, they had apparently occupied themselves all day by shredding, upending, spilling and chewing on anything not permanently attached to the ground.

You were gone so long! Come in and play with us! Feed us! Sweep the broom around like you always do...we missed you so much!  When I told them I needed to change my outfit first, they protested more. Nooo! We love those flowing clothes! We could eat them!  Of course they also wanted the flower arrangements I carried - sorry, goat boys. White roses may look delicious, but here is one thing that is not for you!

Even when they are nibbling your shirt or slobbering on your arm, animals can be a great comfort. Sitting in the pen with two seventy-pound goats jostling for the best position on my lap, I told them about our day, and of a very special person we would miss terribly.

What's a grandma? Emerson asked, nosing in my pocket for stray treats. A grandma, I explained, is someone who does nice things for you, and feeds you, and is never too busy to talk to you and who loves you all the time no matter what.

Even if I knocked over the hay tub and peed in the shed? Yes, even then. (I wondered who did that...)

Even if I ate a whole roof shingle because I was lonely? And I don't have pretty moonspots like my brother? Oh, Emerson, a whole shingle?...but yes, even then. Grandmas are so full of love they never run out.

Mmmm... Ellie snuggled up against me. That sounds so nice. I would miss that grandma. 

I do, Ellie, I already do.

Is There a Tooth Fairy for Goats?

In the past year and a half I have gained an unfathomable amount of knowledge about all things "goat" - I can intelligently discuss such topics as caprine gestation, castration, vaccination and elimination...I understand dire maladies like bloat, urinary calculi, slab-sidedness and meningeal worm...I am well-informed on the nutritional needs of the animal and I am absolutely wicked at hoof-trimming. Last year I even wrote an entire blog about goat teeth.

But...if there is one truth about goats, it is this old cliche - Expext the unexpected. Admit you know nothing, and just wait for the latest goat craziness.

Yesterday I was giving the boys their afternoon bowl of apple chunks, when Elliot suddenly spewed a mouthful of mushy apple pieces all over the top of the house (where he eats his portion). Cleaning up the slimy mess, I discovered one "chunk" that was harder than the rest - only to realize this was no semi-chewed Red Delicious but instead three tiny goat teeth still attached to a piece of jawbone! What on earth? I know that goats normally lose two baby teeth each year, one from each side of the mouth, so clearly this is not right. I saved it in a ziploc bag and added it to our collection of "goat parts" (because someday there might be a museum seeking broken-off scurs or dried goat testicles, you never know...). No obvious bleeding, he is still eating, and I really don't want to put my hand in that mouth...I have no idea what to do here. When I mentioned this event to a friend, she asked (totally serious), "What will you do - take him to a goat dentist?"

Now there's a career I bet my college-bound daughters have never considered!

The other question is, of course, what will the tooth fairy leave for Elliot?

Goats in the Big Apple

Most parents would understand, I think...You love your children, of course, but sometimes you just need a break, a few moments of peace from whining toddlers or sassy teens, or even goats...and so when we recently had the opportunity to spend three days in New York City, I eagerly traded cornfields and creeks for subways and skyscrapers. My written itinerary listed Broadway, Carnegie Hall, Times Square, but a tiny little part of me was also rejoicing that I didn't even have to think about those caprine beasts for three whole days! I would not call to check on them, I would not talk about them, I would not speak their names. I imparted these rules to my family as well, stressing that we could be cultured and discuss only topics such as Art Deco and architecture and French Impressionists. Anyone who even mentioned goats was threatened with the ultimate punishment - being the designated "country idiot" who had to approach a stranger in the subway station and ask which train would take us downtown. (Why on earth do all the maps show routes in colors and yet the actual trains are marked by letters? I knew we needed to find a yellow train to 13th Street, so why were my only options the Q, the R or the M2 Local?? I wanted to shout, "Right, I may seem stupid here, but you should see my skill at hoof-trimming!") 

In Broadway's Gershwin Theatre, Wicked was spellbinding, spectular, packed with fantastic music, plot and special effects. Only one problem - someone should have warned us about Dr. Dillamond. Yes, one of the main characters (a history professor at the school where Glinda and Elphaba study) is indeed a talking goat. Strike one for a goat-free vacation.

The following day we trekked some thirty blocks to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (I had meticulously mapped out a bus route for this trip, but my husband thought the walk would be "fun." Had the city not been smothered in 95 degree heat, he might have been right...) Here at least we could appreciate priceless Monets, Rembrandts, Picassos...oh my goodness, there were goats everywhere! I tried not to spot them, but in nearly every room we spied goats - painted, sculpted, etched into jewelry and Egyptian artifacts, even leering at us from the yogurt for sale in the cafe! There was no escape. That would be strike two.

Meandering downtown in search of affordable shopping (hint - there are half a dozen thrift stores at 23rd and 3rd Streets!), we wandered into Madison Square Park. We took in the lush greenery, a colorful and gigantic display of knitted rope artwork, and individual fenced areas apparently designed to contain romping New York dogs. I'm sure at that moment we all had the same thought, but unfortunately I spoke first.

"Can't you just imagine bringing the goats here?" I called to Emily. "They would absolutely love it!"

Oops. Strike three. Maybe we aren't meant for this urban life. How soon can we go home? I miss those crazy goats!