Best laid plans...or "It was the bacon's fault."

After a long holiday weekend and three snow days, the girls were finally going back to school, albeit with a two-hour delay for icy roads. To celebrate, I decided to make french toast and bacon for breakfast.The goats were still asleep in their improvised pen in the garage (I peeked), so I planned to let them be until the girls left for school. It was a good idea - until the sizzling bacon set off the smoke alarm.  Noooo...

Desperate, I dragged a chair over to hit the elusive silence button on the ceiling alarm, but I knew the damage was done. Since the smoke alarms are all hard-wired together, when one goes off they all go off, including the one in the garage directly above my sleeping goats. So much for breakfast. I left the girls in charge of the kitchen and rushed downstairs, where, as expected, I heard a cacophony of frightened goat shrieks emanating from the garage, the sound of frantic hooves dashing back and forth in their tiny fenced area. Relieved at least that they had not pushed the fencing against my husband's car (two inches to spare!), I noted as I calmed them that the terror of this unexpected alarm clock had apparently caused a massive and widespread bowel and bladder release - could my morning get any worse? Oh, absolutely yes...

As I opened the latch to let them outside, Emerson somehow got his leg stuck in part of the fence gate. Instantly hysterical, he began lunging and bolting to free himself, resisting all my efforts to assist him. By the time I extracted his leg, Elliot was nowhere to be seen and Emerson hobbled away on three legs, blood dripping on the floor. Panic engulfed me. Was his leg broken?  How could I fix this - and how much time before the school bus came? I checked my watch - ten minutes. I yelled for the girls, and we went into overdrive. While Megan herded Elliot onto the deck and then threw together some packed lunches, Emily and I worked together to clean and dress Emerson's wound, then give him a tetanus vaccine injection, which was overdue but luckily purchased and waiting in the refrigerator. Poor Emerson, still in shock, never even saw the needle coming. Somehow the girls got on the bus, I cleaned out the garage and tended my injured guy, and by lunchtime he was putting weight on the leg and back to his scampy self.

All's well that ends well, but from now on I think we'll just have cereal for breakfast.

Can't Always Blame the Dog

Can goats help you get better grades in school? Well, sometimes yes, and sometimes no...

Last week Megan informed me that six of her classmates would be coming over after school to work on a group project for World Cultures class - they needed to film a skit about a family who lived in a small home (enter: the goat shed) and raised farm animals for meat and milk (enter: the goats). Her classmates were well prepared with costumes, props and memorized lines - as long as the goats could act like productive livestock, all would go well.

Preparing a tray of snacks, I noticed one of the male students walk past the kitchen window with a pair of wire cutters. Curious, I called out, "Are those a prop for the skit?"

"That's right," the young man answered. "In the second scene, my character cuts a hole in the fence to escape the border patrol." He disappeared around the corner with the ominous wire cutters. Cuts a hole in the fence...Envisioning a mass goat breakout, I dropped a pan of brownies on the floor and dashed out to the yard, just in time to see him snipping through the wire - that's odd - I  don't recall having a fence over there...

"I hope you don't mind that I brought my own fence roll," Megan's classmate called to me. "I didn't think you would want me to cut yours." Nodding in relieved appreciation, I turned to hear another student scream.

"Where's my physics paper?" she shrieked. "I left it right here, next to my backpack!" Sure enough, there was her purple backpack on the ground, and there was Emerson, casually sauntering past with a satisfied smirk, chewing away..."That goat ate my physics homework! It's due tomorrow! What am I going to do now?"

I offered to write a note to her teacher, but all I could hope was that an "A" on the Cultures project would balance out a failing grade in Physics. And Emerson, having thoroughly digested a four-page paper on quantum mechanics, does seem a bit smarter these days.

"Sure, the goat ate your homework..."

Now You Have It, Now You Don't...

What's a holiday season without a little after-Christmas bartering? "I'll trade you Aunt Gertrude's knitted sweater vest for Uncle Ralph's fruitcake..." It starts at my husband's extended family reunion, where we all bring holiday leftovers to pawn off at a potluck meal, then gather around long tables for the favorite "now-you-have-it, now-you-don't" game, a wild free-for-all where dozens of relatives fight over wrapped white-elephant gifts via a bingo-type lottery. You never know what you'll end up with - last year the largest (and most sought-after) gift turned out to be a hideous wreath in a color that can only be called "puke-green," while a small box in plain wrapping delighted it's recipient with a generous gift card. This year Megan invited a friend along to the reunion - a young man bold enough to meet the relatives and who also brought a tasty buffalo chicken dish that was the high point of the meal!

We explained to him the rules of the "present game," but when he triumphantly grabbed his chosen gift to unwrap, my sister-in-law whispered to me, "Oh no! We brought that one..." just as he tore off the gold paper to reveal a set of glitter nail polish in sparkly pinks and purples. Oops. Fortunately Megan unwrapped a pair of leather driving gloves, and the trade was complete. Across the table one of the cousins gleefully exchanged glow-in-the-dark underwear for a pound of chocolates, and everyone was happy.

Fast forward to this morning, a lovely Epiphany luncheon hosted by one of my friends. As we feasted on such delicacies as curried quinoa salad and baked brie in a candied plum sauce, one of the other guests pulled up a photo on her phone - two adorable kittens abandoned in her barn and in need of a new home, she explained, adding that she is unable to keep them because of a severe cat allergy. Helping myself to a slice of seafood quiche, I quipped my standard answer - "I'll trade you two goats for two cats!" (After all, she already has the barn and several horses, and I do love cats...)  But no deal. She explained that she is already too busy caring for her daughter's dog, a neurotic terrier with a severe anxiety disorder, chronic vomiting and exceptionally sharp teeth - apparently he has already bitten six people.

Over blueberry crumble cake I considered my options. Two sweet kittens tiny enough to tuck in a coat pocket - compare that to scurs and hoof trimming and crusty scabs and parasite injections and lime sulfur baths and frozen water bowls and mounds of droppings and shivering outside on frigid nights trying to coax a reluctant goat to pee...I had to try.

"How about this?" I offered, reaching for another gingerbread star. "For two goats, I'll give both kittens a home (deep breath here - time to sweeten the deal)...and I'll even take the dog."

Apparently their reputation precedes them. They are still here.

Goats in the Garage

With a forecast for bone-chilling temps that make last weeks frosty weather seem balmy, I knew we needed a better way to keep the goats warm at night, especially given Elliot's fragile health. (What's that? Just because I haven't mentioned his crusty scabs, festering open wounds, hair loss, chronic itching and neurological abnormalities for a while, you thought they had gone away? Guess again. After a year of treatment with no success, I'm simply ignoring his bizarre ailments.)

I investigated a heat lamp for the shed, but decided against that because I couldn't reconcile the idea of locking them in a closed building with an edible fire hazard. Anything lower than eight feet is at risk for being chewed, and I doubt any heat benefit would reach that far. The other alternative is to house them overnight in the garage. This requires fencing. At local feed stores, the only portable fencing I found was just thirty inches high - about as effective as drawing chalk lines on the floor and politely asking the goats to respect these boundaries. After an internet search, a few phone calls and an afternoon road trip, I found the perfect solution - an eight-panel "exercise yard" for large dogs. No assembly required, folds flat, ideal for the garage. It wasn't cheap, but that's no problem - I just purloined a wad of cash from my "new vacuum cleaner" envelope on the kitchen counter.  Housework, after all, is way over-rated, and my old vacuum still works fine; it only starts smoking after five minutes of use, a convenient reminder that it's time to move on to something else, like a good book or a bowl of ice cream. Only after rearranging the entire garage and assembling the goats' new bedroom did I realize that I had inadvertently blocked access to the outside door of the garage, meaning that in order to get them hay we now have to carry it up the basement stairs and through the kitchen and dining room to their outside hay rack. Unfortunately, hauling all this hay through the house has increased my need for a dependable vacuum cleaner...

As I keep reminding myself, I sure do love these goats!

Goat Guilt - or "Frosty Goats Part 2"

There are many things I do not understand. We are in the midst of what our weatherman calls "the coldest temperatures in ninety-six years" with single digit daytime highs and bitter wind chills, and last night on the news I saw a segment on how to recognize the signs that your newborn infant has frostbite. If your baby exhibits these symptoms, the reporter urged, whisk her inside and seek medical care. What I wondered is this - who on earth would take an infant outside in this weather?? I nearly froze just from walking to the mailbox; I truly hope nobody has their newborn out on a sled or helping to build a snowman!

Following the infant alert, of course, was the usual admonition to keep pets safely indoors during this frigid spell. Uh-oh. I asked my family for volunteers to host the goats overnight, but there were no takers, just lots of paltry excuses like "I don't want my new quilt all chewed up" or "Mom! They poop even in their sleep!!" I already share my bed with two large cats (seriously, they expand at night!), so last evening I took the goats a steaming bucket of hot water and locked them in their shed, relieved that they could at least have protection from the wind. From the loud thuds and crashing sounds coming from the shed as I walked away, I knew that they were not happy at being confined, but I just pulled my hat over my ears and ran for the warm house.

Next morning, I bundled up and trekked through the snowdrifts to let them out. This is what I saw in the shed - two sleeping goats snuggled up against each other and covered in frost. Except, when they stretched and stood upright, there was a line down the back of each goat separating the frosted fur (which had been facing out) from the unfrosted side (where they had shared body heat). They reminded me of Megan's favorite "black and white" cookies which are iced half chocolate, half vanilla down the middle.

Do I feel guilty, leaving my goats to sleep in such a frozen shed? Yes, terribly. Does it help to know that they would probably still choose to sleep outside, if I let them? Not really.  I am only somewhat reassured that at least we don't live in chilly Chicago or, heaven forbid, Minnesota (minus 42!!), or on a frozen boat in Antarctica...Clearly, there is only one solution.

If two goats can generate enough shared heat to keep half of each goat frost-free, imagine how much warmer a whole heap of goats would be. My husband is on the other computer right now, searching for local breeders. So far he's found almost a dozen adorable Nigerian Dwarf kids for sale in our area. Be brave, goaties! Warmth is on its way!!

Emerson's Head of Hay

Don't you just hate when this happens? You bury your face in the hay tub because the best hay always goes to the bottom - and when you finally come up for the air, the tub is knocked over and you are wearing a very fetching "hay hairpiece." We love you, Emerson!

(Sadly, he has absolutely no idea why all the hay is now on top of his head...)