I Brake for ... What?

I recently spotted this bumper sticker on the car ahead of me: "I brake for artichokes." This puzzled me, as I've never come across an artichoke crossing the road, but I guess you never know - better to alert the drivers behind you in case the situation occurs. Myself, I brake for animals of any size, and of course all yard sales and anything labelled "FREE" left on the curb. (Truly, I've found some real treasures!) My husband brakes for groundhogs, but only to gleefully inspect the bloody carcass after swerving to hit one - but that's a story for another day...

Thankfully, in my small town, there are drivers who brake for goats.

I had taken the two goats for our afternoon walk in the lower field, collars around their necks and leashes (which I always carried but never used) around my waist. With tummies full of nutritious weeds, the boys bounded up the hill toward the deck for the customary "after-walk" teapot of warm water and bowl of apple chunks. (Bribery, I have learned, is a mainstay of goating.) That is when disaster struck - they approached the steps only to spy our small white cat sunning himself on the very steps the goats needed to ascend. Complete panic ensued as Elliot stopped short at the threatening feline in his path and then bolted off down the driveway, no doubt terrorized by visions of ferocious teeth and claws only inches from his fleeing rump - Emerson naturally followed, and soon overtook his charging brother. Why are we running, Elliot? Hey, we've never explored out here before! Let's just keep going! And there I am, hysterically screaming at them and shaking my pitiful container of animal crackers as they dash for the road, scary cat completely forgotten but now enamored by the thrill of the chase. Faster, brother, faster!

Anyone who has visited our house knows that, while we consider ourselves rather rural on three sides of the property, our front bank borders an extremely busy, high-speed thoroughfare, a common route for truck traffic and site of numerous accidents on the blind curve. Yes, that would be exactly where the goats were headed. Somehow, I caught up to Elliot, snapped on his leash and looped him around a tree branch, just in time to see Emerson run out into the center of the road. Hearing the ominous rattle of a truck crossing the metal bridge just before the curve, I willed him to keep running to the other side into the neighbor's cornfield - but that stupid goat just stood there, right in the middle of the road. Grinding screech of brakes...and as I reached the mailbox there was Emerson standing quizzically between a halted tractor-trailer from one direction and an SUV from the other, traffic backing up behind them. Out of breath, humiliated and quite furious, I hauled that scampy goat out of the road by his collar, waved politely to the drivers (oh, please don't be anyone I know!)  and dragged both goats back to the pen on leashes. No teapot, no apples for you! I considered locking the cat in with them, just for spite, but he had already run off, likely hiding from a mouse or a bumblebee.  

Maybe I'll ask the township for one of those triangular yellow signs - "CAUTION - GOAT CROSSING." I wonder if that's in the budget...

High Fashion for Itchy Goats?

I know what you're thinking...We already suspected she was a little crazy, but now we know for sure...but there is a very logical reason why Elliot now has his own wardrobe. For the last five months, Ellie has been plagued by a mysterious skin ailment which causes him intense itching. We have treated him (multiple times) for all the possible parasites which afflict goats, given him antibiotics and steroids, cleaned out his house, changed all his bedding, brushed and groomed and (even once) shaved him. Our veterinarian has done microscopic skin scrapings (which were completely negative) and examined him meticulously for mites, lice and other creepy critters (and found none). Yet he is so itchy that he spends a good part of each day licking, kicking, rubbing and biting at himself to find relief.

Recently he invented a new activity. With his front legs straight back and his rump high in the air, he drags himself forward along the driveway on his neck and chest. While initially this was rather amusing to watch, we soon discovered that he had created numerous open sores along his chest from the friction of the pavement. I am treating them with betadine scrub and antibiotic cream, and the t-shirt is an attempt to keep the wounds clean.

He's not wild about getting dressed every morning. Recalling helpful hints from when my own children were uncooperative toddlers, I offer him choices. - The blue or the stripes today, Ellie? - and tell him how handsome he looks. In the end, though, it comes down to me, the shirt, and a sixty-pound goat with sharp hooves. Sometimes the shirt ends up on me.

Goats and the "Five Second Rule" for Food

Here's a lesser-known fact - for goats, there is no "five second rule."

This handy axiom was likely contrived by a mom of toddlers. What? You dropped a pretzel from your high chair tray? It's okay - five second rule...Peas rolled off your fork onto the floor? Mommy will get them - five second rule. As long as there is no visible dirt and the floor has been cleaned within the last month, most dropped food can be rescued. Of course, this works better for some foods (oreo cookies) than others (mashed potatoes), but in general a rapid response can prevent waste and is a boon to the grocery budget. I even heard this recently from one of my teens - hey, where's that biscotti for my coffee? Oops - five second rule!

This is not the case for goats. My fastidious goats will not even consume hay that has fallen from the hay rack. Any food product which comes in contact with the ground, even for a nanosecond, is now akin to toxic waste. Carrot sticks, animal crackers, crunchy weeds I've carefully picked for them - it doesn't matter - if it's dropped, it's rejected. (And don't even try mixing a cracker back in with the others - they will know.) If you cut up a whole apple into little goat-sized chunks and then in their exuberance the goats leap all over you and the bowl goes flying, just feed the salvaged apples to your children and start over for the goats.

Only one time have I wished my own children were more like the goats. When they were about three years old, my daughters were invited to a birthday party at a local "restaurant" filled with arcade games, ball pits, and overhead climbing tunnels - a loud, germ-laden facility packed with hordes of unsanitary toddlers and their frazzled mothers. As we waited for our pizza and cake, I watched Megan disappear into one of the plastic tunnels, followed by a drippy-nosed child in an apparently-leaking diaper. I fished a pack of clorox wipes from my bag and waited by the slide-exit for when (and if) she would emerge - relieved to finally spot her striped shirt among the melee - she was waving, gleeful - and  chewing?? 

I grabbed her. "Megan, what on earth...??"

Proudly she opened her mouth, displaying - uugghh - "Look, Mommy! I found chicken!"

Goats do have a few advantages...

Yellow Squash, Black Suburbans - Can't Blame Everything on the Goats!

Raising goats can make you do crazy things. This I know. Today as I was watering the weeds I had transplanted into our yard from the roadside bank (anything to make the goats happy), I looked out towards our vegetable garden and realized that I have also done a few crazy things even before the goats joined our family...

The highlight of Em and Ellie's day is their afternoon "walk" in the lower field, next to the garden. We let them out of the fenced yard for about an hour of supervised "free grazing" (praying the whole time that we'll eventually be able to get them back in the pen).  Sadly, this activity may soon be curtailed as I fear the temptation of a growing vegetable garden will be too much too resist - hey Emerson, let's eat all these watermelon plants...mmm! Strawberries! Radishes! Poisonous rhubarb! Absently I wondered if my husband will plant yellow squash this year...

Several years ago our squash were out of control. They multiplied everywhere, growing from four inches to two feet long overnight. We fried it, pureed it, grilled it, froze it. We made squash pancakes, squash salad, squash casserole. In desperation we dropped them on neighbors' doorsteps in the dark like abandoned puppies. Still they stacked up on the dining room table, crying for homes...

I called my sister-in-law, whose children went to the same day camp as mine. Would she take a few? (I offered free babysitting in exchange.) Two, she agreed, so I eagerly selected a pair which resembled giant Neanderthal clubs. Food for a week! At camp I set the squash on the pavement and scanned the parking lot for her black Suburban - oh no! She was already driving away! Desperately I hefted both club-like squash and madly ran after her vehicle, determined to cut her off before the exit. (We had a deal!) Crazily waving the giant squash, I leaped in front of her vehicle - but how odd...the only way this driver could be my sister-in-law was if she had entered Witness Protection overnight and gotten a new identity, but then why was she still coming to the same camp...and that's when I saw a small red hatchback, driven by my clearly-recognizeable sister-in-law, pull into the lot.

"Sorry I'm late," she called. "My Suburban's in the shop and I had to borrow this car. Are those my squash?" At that point the driver of the black Suburban, taking advantage of my breathless-and-distracted state, made a very rude gesture and swerved around me into the road.

The funny thing is, after that, my daughters begged me to drop them off a block from camp each morning, though I really can't figure out why...but with rumors of a crazy woman attacking people in the parking lot, I just couldn't risk it.

The Seasons Change...

How do you know when winter is but a memory, and spring is finally here? For some people, it's seeing that first robin in the yard, or spying the daffodils peeking up through the soil.  Today I am putting away all the winter clothes, confident that the seasons have changed - and this is how I know:

For the first time in many long, cold months, when I went outside to feed the goats, the roof of their shed was covered with little brown pellets, an entire night's worth of digestive by-products. I've had daffodils blooming for a week or so, but the true hallmark of spring for me is when the goats decide to start sleeping outdoors.

Happy spring, everyone!!

Teens, Goats and Barry Manilow?

There are many ways to embarrass your teenage daughter. One is to wear serviceable-but-incredibly-ugly "goat pants" when her friends are over. I got these gems at a yard sale for fifty cents - just needed a few pieces of duct tape to patch the holes in the back, and they're good as new. (Yes, maybe I should have tried to color-match the duct tape, but I already had a roll of black...use your imagination) Warm and goat-proof!! She tells her friends I'm a local vagrant; her real mother is off getting a manicure all day...

Here's another way. Stop at the local Goodwill thrift store with your daughter because you are early for an appointment nearby and have some time to browse. Then, when a Barry Manilow song comes on the radio, start singing along. Sing loudly, enthusiastically, since she knows that Barry Manilow was your teen music idol at her age. If you are truly lucky, another customer (likely the mother of an equally-mortified teen) will start singing along with you and then you can have a conversation about how great those old songs are. (Who knew I could still recall all the words to Weekend in New England?) If your daughter scowls at you, pluck something lacy off the lingerie rack and ask her opinion  - call across the store if she is hiding out in another corner.

Even the goats like 80s music. Recently there was a brief shower - light drizzle, really, and when the sun finally came out the goats peeked out the door, singing, "We made it through the rain - we didn't drown, we didn't melt, we found ourselves protected huddled in the back corner of our shed...Looks like we made it! We could be ready to take a chance again and venture outside...Come play with us, people, you know we can't smile without you!"

Goats, old music, bargain shopping...again I could almost break out in song...These are a few of my favorite things...

The Theory of "Benign Neglect" - Can It Work for Us?

A neglected goat is a healthy goat? How can this be?

I discovered this idea recently in a goat manual - the author proposes that goats are best raised as close as possible to what their lives would be like in the "wild" (wherever that is) - disdaining such unnatural things as chemical dewormers, food treats, collars, and anything else which elevates the goat to the status of a household pet. His hearty goats forage for their own food, drink cold water (gasp!) and somehow know exactly which plants have medicinal properties when they need them. The author claims that his herd, raised under the concept of benign neglect, are happier, healthier and more productive than any pampered caprine. We decided to give it a try.

I felt it was only fair to warn Em and Ellie first - there would be no more animal crackers, no more ginger snaps. Gone will be morning bottles, aloe vera juice, those little bowls of mineral supplements they love so much. No more night-light in the shed - wild goats don't have the luxury of electric lighting, after all, and I'll have to get rid of their rubber mats, Emerson's plastic slide and Ellie's favorite Adirondack chair. After a few days you won't miss those apple snacks...it's for your own good. Toughen up, boys. You'll see...

Emerson head-butted me, then dashed off to practice standing on rocks, but Elliot just stood there meekly, rubbing his scabby chin on my leg. Something was bothering him...

"What's wrong, sweetie?" I asked. "Aren't you excited about the new happier, healthier you?"

I had to bend down close to hear his plaintive reply - as I looked right into those gorgeous blue eyes, he pleaded, "But Mommy, what about my coffee pot?"

Ah, yes, I had forgotten about that. Somehow a few weeks ago Elliot started drinking water only
from a miniature glass coffee carafe, don't ask me why - I think all the water bowls were frozen solid and I just grabbed the first container I saw. Emerson will still drink from the bowl, as long as the water is properly heated and poured fresh from their chickadee teapot,  but Ellie waits eagerly for his tiny coffee pot, slurping it dry as I refill it three or four times. Of course I can't leave a breakable glass carafe outside in the pen, so this has become a process repeated several times a day. Hot water, teapot, carafe...now all I need is a tray of scones and a lace tablecloth.

Maybe benign neglect is not going to work for us after all...