Oh, Yoga Pants...

Ever have a day like this?

Invigorated by a crisp autumn morning, I decided to attempt some new yoga poses in the privacy of my lower driveway, behind the garage. Eyes closed and embracing the meditation, I startled to hear a door slam, and emerging from his truck a mere ten feet from my spandex-clad and enfolded limbs, was my plumber, here totally unexpectedly to complete some work he started several weeks ago.

Since his work is in the goat yard, I grabbed the leashes and heaved the goats toward their other fenced area, a journey they generally fight each tortuous step. Suddenly, Emerson bolted, like a four-legged Flash hurtling me at breakneck speed across the field as I fought to both stay upright and keep hold of his leash. Was this some diabolical revenge because I refused to let him enter our local Goat Races?? Somehow I finally got him through the gate, then went back for Elliot, then finally, gasping, back to the plumber, who had been leaning against his truck and chewing on a toothpick as the spectacular race unfolded. He squinted at me.

"Do you breed goats for profit, or the milk?" he asked. "What I mean is, what's the purpose of them?"

Oh, some questions are not meant to be answered, but I didn't hesitate. (Have you never shouted at your plumber?)

"The entertainment value isn't enough??!! Here you are on a routine septic tank repair call, and you get to watch a middle-aged woman in yoga pants do the hundred-yard-dash with a lunatic goat? Isn't that worth something? (Maybe even a discount on the bill...)"

Truly I still don't know if I actually snapped this reply aloud or just thought it to myself...I guess I'll know when I see the final invoice.

Leaving him to his work in the yard and the basement, I limped to the kitchen to console myself with a post-workout fruit smoothie. Nothing beats fresh juicy peaches...Only after I had peeled and sliced half a dozen of them, their sticky nectar oozing through my fingers, did I realize - all my water had been shut off.

Maybe the goats will lick my fingers for me...

Concrete 9-1-1

The day after we finished the air conditioning work, a routine septic tank inspection revealed that the outlet baffle (something I never knew existed, and more critical than the inlet baffle) in our underground concrete tank had completely deteriorated. Trust me, this is a bad thing. (If you really want to understand exactly what happens when your flush the toilet, I can now explain the process with the help of color-coded diagrams provided by the sewage hauler - though my recommendation would be - don't ask!)

Suddenly we needed to hire a septic-specialist as well as a backhoe operator to unearth the 900 gallon concrete tank, buried four feet underground and located inconveniently right in front of the goat shed. (Really poor planning when someone built this house fifty years ago!!) What on earth would I do with Emerson and Elliot for a week while their yard was being excavated? They graciously offered to move into the bedrooms of my away-at-college daughters, but my husband corralled them with a temporary boundary just outside the shed door, eliminating more than half of their usual space and causing them intense distress. What happened to our world?? Why does it end here??

For my husband, the greatest challenge was to dismantle a section of the yard fence which he had built nineteen years ago. I watched as he dug and heaved at a four-foot high support post that just wouldn't move, even when he wrapped it in chains hooked to the tractor. Only after the tractor nearly bucked him off did he admit defeat.

"I guess that post isn't coming out," he admitted. "I just remembered I set each post in concrete two feet below ground when I built this."

Well, that makes sense. After all, we did design the fence to contain our knee-high toddler twins nearly two decades ago. At least I never had to worry that I'd run inside to refill their juice cups and return to find they'd yanked out the fence posts and crawled into the road!

The project is nearly complete, we can once again flush and shower, and the goats have their yard back. New posts are securely set right next to the old ones, which got sawed off at ground level. Somehow this required an eighty pound bag of concrete, but I have learned to just look the other way. Apparently you can never use too much concrete...

Here's why I'm in a panic now. Yesterday Emerson got into the trash pile, and when I grabbed him I saw what he was so voraciously devouring - the bag of leftover dry concrete powder, which looks very similar to the mineral mix he loves.

"Don't worry," my husband assured me. "It would only harden if you mixed it with water."

Great - considering he just drank an entire bowl of warm vinegar water!! 

Suddenly the septic tank blockage doesn't seem so bad. Wait and see...

How to Keep Your Appliances (and Repairmen) Safe From Goats

This month's advice - when planning where your new pet goats will be housed, try to avoid areas containing poisonous shrubbery, air-conditioning units, and the access port to your septic tank. My goats live in a yard with all three. This blog is Part 1 of the story...

Until last month, a makeshift section of bargain fencing adequately separated Em and Ellie from our toxic rhododendron bush as well as the central air compressor. All was well until Elliot decided to charge through the fence while a technician was servicing the AC unit. Every job has occupational hazards, but I am certain this was the first time the technician was attacked by an amorous goat while bending over to replace a wire...

Mortified, I asked my husband to reinforce the fence to prevent further incidents. Perhaps we could use that pile of scrap wood behind the shed...and only as we were suddenly pushing not one, but two giant carts around the home improvement warehouse did I remember that my husband does no project in a small way.

Rhododendron, compressor, Mr. AC Technician - you are all safe now. Behold, the new "Air Conditioner Stockade." (Don't tell my husband I said that. We'll have the project materials paid off in a few easy payments...) As long as the goats don't crack the nine-digit code for the lock...

                                          Just try it, Elliot - this time you've met your match!

If You Give a Goat a Melon...

Knowing how my husband enjoys a horticultural challenge, a friend gave us several packets of seeds sent from her mother in California, where drought and watering restrictions have made gardening impractical. Since the clear plastic bags were labelled only in Chinese, we simply planted, fertilized, and waited to see what grew. From the nine varieties of seeds, three plants emerged - some bumpy white gourds, a spicy lettuce, and the largest melons we had ever seen. The melon plant quickly took over the entire garden, its vines aggressively curling out into the yard and over a wall as the fruit grew more and more enormous. I was reminded of Roald Dahl's classic "giant peach" and somewhat fearful of waking to find my house surrounded by vicious melons... When the most mammoth of them suddenly changed color and took on a chalky coating, I begged my husband to pick it before it became too heavy to lift.

Apparently similar to zucchini and meant for cooking, the melon fought us tenaciously, gripping my sharpest knife in its tough flesh and leaving my hands raw from contact with its spiky coating. I managed to hack apart some chunks to add to a simmering stew, but quickly realized this beast (with six others still growing outside) was more than I could handle. Where could I turn for help?

Fortunately, goats love Chinese cooking melons and had it gnawed down to a paper-thin rind within two days. I think I need to save some seeds and plant these again next year!

Lessons from the Goat Yard

My goats have enjoyed a rather uneventful summer. Elliot's skin pathology is, if not gone, at least dormant. The past few months have heralded only one escape (more frightening for Ellie than myself, I think, when I spotted him wandering along the road, and still no idea how he got out) and one incident of inappropriate contact with the air-conditioning technician (Emerson, and never, ever bend over in front of a goat unless you are absolutely certain the hastily-erected temporary fence will hold against his weight!) Relieved by the respite from constant goat drama, I am grateful for the lessons my goats have taught me these past three years. Take flexibility, for instance...

Several weeks ago my daughter and I were preparing a meal she had requested - herb-encrusted chicken on a bed of risotto and sauteed kale - when her phone made its peculiar chirping sound. Her eyes lit up as she read the text.

"Awesome! I've just been invited to a birthday party!"

Absently I drizzled wine over the sizzling chicken. "That's nice. What's the date?"

"Well, tonight. Six o'clock, actually." She already had her apron off, thrusting the risotto bowl at me, mid-mix. "Here, I need to get changed."

Quite a bit more wine splashed from the bottle as I spun toward the wall clock, sputtering. "Tonight?? Like, twenty-two minutes from now, that six o'clock? What about dinner?"

"Oh, it's my phone's fault. She actually texted me fourteen minutes ago; it just took forever to go through. And don't worry about dinner - it's a cookout, so I'll eat there."

Staring at a haystack of kale waiting its turn in the pan, I barely caught her voice from down the hall. "Oh, and I'll need a gift - maybe something you have hidden away, that you bought me for Christmas? Can you wrap it quick? I need to leave in five."

It's a lucky thing the goats like kale! Flexibility...This, however, was mere preparation for the following week when my other daughter arrived home from her summer camp job, dumping three months worth of luggage and laundry in the living room.  "I hope you don't mind," she announced, "but I've invited twenty-four people here for lunch tomorrow."

Maybe it was the dead silence, or my catatonic stare as she peered into the refrigerator..."Mom? Maybe we should go to the grocery store."

Oh, yeah. Either that, or we'll have to roast a goat...

In Search of the Silver Pellet

I am plagued by the question, can goats digest duct tape? -  but really it all started with Camp-Out Night. Trying to increase their appreciation for free-grazing as well as decrease the mess in the driveway, I recently left them overnight in their weedy fenced field.

Rats, Ellie, she dragged us into this prison again! Let's refuse to graze and just cry at the gate until she lets us out. I won't eat any weeds if you don't.

Lest you think me cruel, it was a warm, dry evening. How was I to know the township would set off all those frightening fireworks late in the night?

So traumatized was Emerson from this harrowing experience, the next morning during breakfast he lunged against the screen door in an attempt to be even closer to me. Don't ever make me sleep so far away from you again, Mommy!

No screen door is a match for eighty pounds of hooves and horns, and when flies began pouring in through the gaping, goat-shaped opening, generous portions of shiny silver duct tape seemed the obvious panacea, at least until my husband could make the necessary repairs that evening.

What I had not considered was that Mike's volleyball game would take priority over screen repair, and that goats relish the taste of duct tape even more than their new favorite snack (cherry tomatoes). The following morning as I stumbled for the coffee pot, I had two simultaneous thoughts: How did all these flies get in, and what is Elliot chewing on so vigorously? Then, seconds later, Hey, who took all the duct tape off the screen door? Caffeine kicked in at that moment, and as I rushed outside to pry open Ellie's mouth and retrieve the giant sticky glob, he gave a tremendous gulp and down it went, some four yards of the most indestructible substance on the planet.

Three days later, I still hover between panic and mild concern, imagining the monstrous blockage. Where could the stuff be right now? I feel for suspicious lumps; I watch him constantly. He's eating and drinking, so things are going in, and things are definitely coming out of him. He excretes mounds of raisin-like pellets all over the yard, same as always, but I'm still waiting for the pile that spills out glowing silver and slightly sticky. Where is the darn stuff?? Is it festering in his third stomach, or could he really have transformed that much duct tape into little brown pellets so effortlessly?

Maybe I have magic goats!

Beware the Howlers...

Recently we were privileged to host several international visitors in our home, and as always the goats were delighted to meet new people. Most of our guests had some experience with goats, although not in the "useless, money-sucking pet" category which best describes Emerson and Elliot. Stroking Ellie's back, one woman confided that she had received a goat for her sixteenth birthday, many years ago.

"What a wonderful gift!" I beamed. "How long did you have your goat?"

"Oh, about three days," she answered, "until we ate him at my party."

Cover your ears, goatboys!!

Bizarre as goats may be, however, they are far from the strangest creatures we could have chosen. Sipping coffee on the deck one morning as we watched the goats chase each other, one of our guests turned to me. "And you also raise howler monkeys?"

"What??" I sputtered, spewing coffee on the railing. "Howler monkeys? Of course not! Why would you even think that?" (Like goats aren't enough insanity, perish the thought that we might want our trees inhabited by gangs of four-foot long swinging monkeys who apparently drop fruit on people's heads...Plus, aren't they only found in South America?)

"I've heard them here several times," he insisted. "It's a very distinctive sound."

Well, yes, as I do recall from a grade-school science project, the loud gutteral cry of the Howlers can travel for miles - "Maybe you're hearing the turkeys across the field?"

No, he said, definitely Howlers. His wife agreed, having recognized their call numerous times overnight. Alarmed, I looked at their three children, who all nodded solemnly. Howlers. After all, this family lives in Mexico; they must know...my mind raced.

How did the monkeys get here? Aren't they found only in rain forests? Who do I call for a howler monkey infestation? Are they harmful to goats?


"There!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Did you hear that?" Eagerly his family concurred, but I had missed it. Frustrated, I asked them to listen again, explaining that I had been distracted by the whining sound of a car driving over the rusted metal bridge at the edge of our property. Only when they again identified the monkey's cry just as another car passed did we realize, this decrepit bridge, already slated for replacement, mimics exactly the call of an indigenous jungle monkey. All these years of living here, and I never knew. The new bridge will be concrete, wider and safer, but suddenly I feel a little sad...

Oh well, at least I still have my goats...