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.