My Dearest Boo

Disclaimer - this one is not about goats. Maybe you already figured that out. If you've never loved a cat or feel that the loss of a pet is insignificant during a global pandemic, just don't read anymore. I don't mind; I'm mostly writing this for myself anyway. (Yes, Emerson and Elliot, I promise to feature you again soon!)

My dearest, dearest Boo,
Today marked four mornings that I've woken without your familiar warmth curled tight against my side. I wondered if there might be a waking instant when I didn't recall, or if the weighted heat pack I now fall asleep with could momentarily fool my pre-coffee brain, but just as my hand rests on the hours-cool fabric, I already know. Even after we finally return to school and work and try to heal from unfathomable losses, there will always be a Benny-sized hole in my heart.

You know, Boo, we almost didn't get you, those sixteen and a half years ago! After all, we already had two cats, and when Aunt Karen forgot to buy Emily a birthday gift and offered her a kitten instead, I said no. But...eight-year-olds are persistent, and since Megan got a sparkly new Polly Pocket set, you came home with us. (That's right, goats, just like you both started out as Emily's pets too!)

Born in a decorative wishing well and abandoned by your feral mama, you and your two brothers were rescued by Aunt Karen, nestled in a shoe box where your cousins fed you with an eye dropper. How fun it is to see Rusty and Goliath every time we visit - they share your sweet temperament though not your silky white fur, both still hearty barn cats, frisky hunters in thick orange coats. (Yes, Ellie, sort of like you and Emerson were quadruplets, and your brothers live with another family. Why? Well, Emily chose Benny because he was the snuggliest kitten. I'm not really sure why she chose you!!)

You brought joy from the start, a frisky fluff of love who pounced and played and followed the girls everywhere while our older cats slept and eyed you warily if you came too close. When there wasn't a lap available, you slept in a tissue box on the couch or a tiny basket next to the stove. You belonged to Emily, but really all of us, but really me. Those years became a blur of middle school, high school, sports, boyfriends, summer camp, driving lessons, jobs... Aunt Karen found us another kitten (Tobi)  as we bid goodbye to the older cats, and Daddy joked we'd been married so long "we're on our second set of cats." (No, Emerson, we will NEVER have a second set of goats!!)

You had your mishaps, Little Boo - the time a hawk almost carried you off, or when you got caught in a neighbor's trap, and the shame of being mauled by a mouse (that one made the blog!) One year you got a respiratory illness while we are away camping, and I hiked to a pay phone each morning to call the vet. It always horrified me that you crossed the road to hunt in the cornfield, intently flicking your head left, right, left watching for cars. (No, goats, you may not!!) And how about my fortieth birthday, when I looked out the bathroom window to greet my four baby robins and saw YOU in the nest instead! You watched as I buried those birds in the garden - oh Boo, you didn't know...

Through those crazy years as the girls grew up, I don't know exactly when you tangled yourself so deeply into my heart. I've always had cats, loved them all, but until you loved me back I didn't know  such a thing could be. Both girls went away to college six years ago, and in my empty-nest despair I finally had hours just for you. Oh, how we snuggled and cried together! How very much I now miss holding you close, stroking your so-soft fur, hearing your sweet "chirps" to greet me! Always where I was, always ready to be held... Even as you neared fifteen you were still my same sweet Benny, until the demon of Feline Kidney Disease grabbed hold of our lives.

Subtle at first, you had just a small weight loss, a few lab values too high, and I vowed to fight this monster with my whole being. I read cat food labels, veterinary websites, owner blogs; I took notes and kept charts - and I made you a promise. Everything for you, but nothing that hurts you, we do this together. We compromised on the switch to low-protein prescription food (carrots and all), daily weights on a scale in the living room, and adding an upstairs litter box. We rejected the blood pressure pills (ick, you hated being held down for them) and the slimy potassium paste (double ick). Surprisingly, we thrived on subcutaneous infusions of  IV fluids through a tiny needle in your back, at first twice a week but eventually every day. If I waited until you were in a deep sleep, you didn't even flinch at the needle, and then we had twenty minutes or so of wonderful cuddle time, didn't we? I always thought you had more energy afterwards.  For over a year you ate well, maintained your weight, kept active and affectionate...until it all fell apart.

I'm so sorry for making you take the laxative paste - but the constipation days were just awful! And then the abscessed tooth - we bought a couple months with an antibiotic shot, but then you lost your appetite, kept dropping weight until I could hardly bear to put you on the scale. Ten pounds, nine, eight, seven, and all you wanted to do was sleep, though every time I woke you and carried you to the kitchen, you still ate a few bites, just for me. Is that enough, Mommy? And then you were crazy thirsty for fresh water from only the basement sink, always trying to lure anyone downstairs to turn on the tap no matter how many times a day I refilled your water bowls...It got harder for you to stay warm, and I kept saying how spring was coming, and just hang on for sunny days because you loved the outdoors so much and sleeping on the deck and sniffing the flower beds...

Your last weekend was rough. I knew we didn't have much time left, but I had seen the forecast and I so wanted those lovely days for you. Weren't they great?  I carried you out to the grass, and you ambled around the daffodils and the lilacs and sniffed in the breeze, then scratched your claws on the deck boards (like you always loved) and took a long nap out there. I thought maybe you could rally, fight harder now that spring is here, but Monday morning you couldn't stand to eat, and collapsed after I carried you outside. All you wanted was the basement sink, nearly falling down the stairs when you got yourself to the door. I hooked up your fluids, and together we laid on the bed and talked about things and I scritched your head like you loved and stroked your neck and cried and cried because you were so brave but this battle we just couldn't win.

Emily drove us to the vet so I could keep holding you, and in the sunshine we sat on a rocking chair on the patio while the vet came outside in her mask with one last needle and you just fell asleep in my arms. Back home I rocked you in the sun some more, and kissed you and told you again how much I loved you always. I dug a final bed for you under the grape arbor, near the other cats, and lined it with soft grasses and flowers and you looked so peaceful but I am so, so missing you.

What I think of when I doubt myself are the "no-mores" for you. No more carrots, sure, no more scary thunderstorms, no more needles, trips to the vet, horrid laxative paste and bad constipation days. No more being so thirsty or cold, and no more times I have to go to work and leave you for so many hours. It's hard to balance these with no more snuggles and naps together and no more walks in the garden, but to me it seems the scales had tipped that way. 

Rest well, my sweet. We loved a lifetime in sixteen years, didn't we? Always.

Yes, goats. I know - you love me too. And yes, we can take a walk in the sun today...

Goats in Church??

Like to sing, knit, craft, cook, read, or pull weeds? Our local church has countless opportunities to get involved and volunteer - no matter what your talents, there is a need to fill. Play the piano. Teach Sunday School. Hold babies. Be a greeter. Sing in the choir. Count offering. Join the Kitchen Committee. Serve communion. Prepare funeral meals. Lead a Book Club. Visit the sick. Knit prayer shawls. Park cars. Stuff mailboxes. My husband was even approached several years ago about joining a Dramatic Mime Ministry. (Those of you who know him can guess his horrified response!!)

Something for everyone - and yet...Last Sunday I overheard a conversation in which a newer church member mentioned how much her children enjoyed the youth choir, then remarked, "and we're also planning to help out those baby goats, you know - the Orange Peel Ministry."

The what??? Em and Ellie are now a ministry?? Yes, I did place a small sign on the bulletin board asking for citrus peel donations, and yes, I do currently have twelve families who faithfully bring dried peels to church each week, and yes, I am so grateful for these free and tasty goat snacks - this is amazing!

With the coming of spring (hallelujah!!), peak citrus season is almost over - but I don't want to deprive my friends of the joy of serving. If only I could expand the Orange Peel Ministry somehow, perhaps with an event like our annual leaf-raking or All-Church Clean-Up Day...

Ministry opportunity: Goat Day! Bring your own shovels, rakes, buckets and wheelbarrows! Serve those who poop every twenty minutes and can't clean up after themselves! A whole winter's worth of goat muck - let's make a day of it!!

Note - snack provided. (You guessed it - fresh orange slices!)

Are goats afraid of spiders?

Checking the attendance roster for my Kindergarten Sunday School class this week, I heard a commotion across the room. "Teacher, Teacher, come quick! There's a HUGE spider in the legos!"

So what does this have to do with goats? You'll see. I could say that I calmly walked to the lego corner and took care of the problem. This would be a lie. Actually, I stood petrified by the door, frantically debating whether to activate the Intruder Alert or simply scream for an adult helper from across the hall and abandon my young students to the arachnid. Fortunately, my panicked prayers were soon answered another way as I heard, "Oh, never mind. Isaac killed it."

During our Bible story lesson that morning, I asked the kids to share things which made them afraid. I got the usual responses - the dark, lightning storms, growling dogs, being lost from my parents - as well as the more disturbing responses of people with glowing red eyes and getting a small alligator as a pet and then it grows so big and eats my whole family. (Hey, just get a kitten, okay??)

What are goats afraid of? Mine are terrified of cats. Heavy rain. Very loud noises, like me screaming and throwing water bowls at them (not often, but sometimes they drive me so CRAZY!) And for Elliot - being locked in The Chokey.

If you haven't read Roald Dahl's classic Matilda, you should. At least watch the movie...if only to understand the terror felt by evil Miss Trunchbull's young students when she locked them for hours in a cramped dark closet inhabited by creepy crawly creatures...I imagine it a bit like the shelter in the above photo where Emerson is taking a nap - and where I accidentally locked Elliot for half an afternoon recently.

Elliot had already gulped down his noon bucket of warm water, but pokey Emerson was still taking tentative licks with his tongue, testing the temperature, the vinegar concentration...and then Ellie went nuts and started butting at him and biting my jacket in search of treats, just go away and let him drink before I freeze to death out here, you stupid animal!!  Frustrated, I shoved Elliot inside and latched the door, and then the mail truck came with a package and the phone rang and I made some hot cocoa...and he was only in there a few hours before I remembered - but now Elliot always sleeps safely on top of the house. Sorry, sweetie!!

Birthday greetings to this pair of crazy kids. Seven years seems like, well, an eternity...best goats ever.

Minimalists, Goats and Games - Who Goes First?

If you had to get rid of 24 things from your house today, could you do it?

Wanting to both eliminate clutter and donate to a  favorite charity, my daughter and I committed to this popular internet challenge - on January 1 we each discarded one item, January 2 called for two things, and so on with more items filling the box each day. Clothing, books, kitchen gadgets, anything goes. (Why on earth do we own six blenders? And a dozen jars of anchovy paste? Yup - food counts too.) It starts out easy, with too-tight jeans and chipped coffee mugs being tossed, along with a bunch of Tupperware with no lids and old VHS tapes. By the second week I had cleaned out all the closets and every drawer in the kitchen (a shoe box of ballpoint pens saved me mid-week - how many pens does one family need, anyway?) 

It was Week 3 where I started to sweat, and the rest of my family became suspicious. Doubtful that his missing NASCAR t-shirts were really all "in the laundry" (as I claimed), my husband installed a lock on his toolbox. It might seem simple to find 22 unneeded items in the entire house, except that yesterday I scrounged and barely got 21! Decision time - does a pair of socks count for two? And what about old sneakers - if I remove the laces can I call them four pieces?? Mom, have you seen my iPod? (Busted!!) And my Batman hat?

And then I looked out the window...

I know, I know...this is an evil thought, but I've often wondered who would notice if I relocated them to that farm up the road late at night...checking off not just one-two boxes for Em and Ellie but also the vast amount of supplies they've accumulated - four water buckets, five hay tubs, a half-dozen winter coats with Velcro straps, leashes, collars, containers and bowls for sunflower seeds, orange peels, animal crackers and apple cider vinegar...don't forget all the mineral blocks, dewormers, anti-itch spray, antibiotic paste, grooming brushes, hoof trimmers, one hoof-trimming stand (crafted by my husband but yet unused because I can't coax the goats into it!), rubber sleeping mats (partly chewed), brooms (for sweeping poop), wheelbarrows (for stowing it) and ten large garbage cans full of locust pods collected this fall. The minimalist challenge? Sure, nothing to it! Give me a number!

Here's my suggestion. Do this - but start in February. Only three fewer days than the months around it may not sound like much, but this amounts to 90 items. Trust me on this! Mom, what happened to the TV? And why are the cats hiding under the bed all the time?

Feel free to come admire my new un-cluttered house. (Just don't take off your coat while you're here!)

Package Delivery, Goat Style

One of the little-known benefits of having goats is that you no longer have to open your own packages. Found this scene in the driveway a few weeks ago, after the UPS truck apparently came while I was in the shower. Can't you just imagine how much fun Emerson and Ellie had doing this? For us???

Right, so now I know goats don't like cat food. Unfortunately, the soggy cookbook in the snowbank was meant as a gift - and two paperback books are still missing.

How's that poetry taste, Elliot?
Oh, just delicious, brother! Goes down so smooth...How do you like the mystery novel?
Mmmm...savory and delectable, every bite a surprise! No wonder Mom's been so anxious to read it!

Wonder if there's any chance of a refund...

The Great Granola Bar Gaffe

Celebrating our goats' 6th birthday causes me to recall the many struggles they have overcome - like the horrific parasitic infestation which consumed our summer of 2013 (above). They have survived not only having their horns burned off (twice) with a branding iron and their tender testicles snapped off with tight rubber bands but also countless blizzards, one flood, one bout of urinary calculi, five skin biopsies under anesthesia, coccidiosis, relentless itching, a bad bee sting and a wasp nest, numerous superficial cuts and scrapes, and most recently, banana bloat. Oh, and last month I almost killed them with granola bars.

First, know that when my daughters were young I was the absolute queen of childproofing. We installed baby gates, cabinet latches, window guards, even locks on the toilet bowls (again, apologies to those adult guests who couldn't figure them out!) We anchored all the heavy furniture to the walls, bought Mr. Yuk stickers by the roll and carefully sliced grapes and hot dogs into thin, choke-proof slivers. We stored the steak knives above the refrigerator and secured the yard with a four-foot fence and self-locking gates. "Safety First" was always my policy...

Since then, I've slipped up a few times. (Face it, the first time your daughter drives off in a car with a boy, you realize it doesn't matter that you've protected her with dye-free detergent and lead-free mini-blinds all those years!) So when I carefully latched my husband's plastic lunch box and set it outside just for a moment while he warmed up his truck, how could I have foreseen that the goats would find and destroy it that quickly? Commotion mere moments later led me to this scene scattered about the  deck - one lunch box (in pieces), a plastic fork and spoon, one banana (intact), one container of  salami and cheese cubes, one chocolate pudding (crushed but uneaten), a few carrot sticks, and two goats with guilty faces. I did a quick inventory...Goats! Where is the apple? (Shrug) Did you really eat the napkins?? (Yum!) Wait! What happened to both granola bars - chewy chocolate ones in the foil wrappers??

Recalling Emerson's near-fatal blockage from a strip of banana peel, I felt my pulse quicken. Would they have chewed through the wrappers, or swallowed them intact in the foil? The smooth bars might slide down a goat's throat, but then what? Would the wrappers burst open in the rumen or just cause a deadly obstruction? Also, did each goat eat one granola bar, or did someone consume both?

The next few days were tense. Every morning I took a deep breath before peering into their shed, fearful of what I'd find. I palpated their bellies, monitored their eating patterns, examined their droppings for pieces of foil or chocolate oat chunks. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It's been three weeks now - are we safe? Maybe...

I bought my husband a new lunch box - galvanized steel with a combination lock. Also, I now unwrap his granola bars and store them in easily-digestible paper towels. You can never be too careful!

The Perilous Peel (or why bananas can be deadly)

The average life expectancy for a goat is twelve years, although goats who are exceptionally "well-cared-for" can live to be twenty. The running joke among my friends is that Em and Ellie (now almost six) will probably still be dancing on our back deck when they're thirty. (Hey Mom, can you bring out a fresh bucket of warm water? Don't forget the vinegar!)

That said, last week I nearly killed Emerson with a banana peel.

Inspired when my sister told me how her four goats love banana peels (although they scoff at soybeans and locust pods), I tried these on Em and Ellie, and yes, they relished this new potassium-rich treat. Suddenly my friends and neighbors all had blackened bananas or bags of slimy peels to share... and then one morning Emerson staggered out of the shed, glassy-eyed, belly bulging and foaming at the mouth.

Panic struck as my fingers flew across the keyboard - every Google search of his symptoms turned up "bloat," a life-threatening condition of pent-up gas bubbles in the digestive system most often caused by excessive grazing on fresh spring grass after a winter in the barn. With scant few blades of grass peeking up through the snow, this made no sense, but I initiated the recommended treatments in desperation.

Constantly massage the rumen, particularly the left side.
Hold goat upright and pat with vigor as though burping a baby.
Encourage goat to keep walking around,  following behind to listen for escape of gas.
Force-feed goat a paste of water mixed with powdered laundry detergent or baking soda.
If no improvement, may need to puncture the abdomen to release pressure.

After about three hours of enforced long walks and rumen-rubbing, I was exhausted, frozen, and covered in a slimy goat-spit/baking soda paste. Brother Elliot had been excited to tag along, head-butting Emerson (or sometimes me) whenever Emerson tried to lie down. And finally Emerson was improving - belly softer, eyes clear, even willing to accept a few animal crackers. By afternoon, he was munching on hay, back to his usual frisky self.

Was it a weird mid-winter bloat? Maybe - but my theory is that a length of banana peel got stuck somewhere and impeded the flow of digestive gases. We're not taking any chances. From now on we'll stick to orange peels!

Goats Go Bananas!

Emerson: These are few of our favorite things - soybeans, locust pods, animal crackers, dried orange peels (lemon, pomegranate, grapefruit, etc.), sunflower seeds - and now a new addition to the list...

BANANA PEELS!!

Yummy! We devour them either fresh or dried and crunchy; yellow, spotted or slimy black - they are delicious any way you serve them. What we can't comprehend is why it took the humans almost six years to figure this out. (Mom was probably eating them all herself!)

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Mom: Before the candlelight Christmas Eve service this year, the lobby attendant pulled me aside with five small paper bags containing dried orange peels - gifts from church friends who leave them above coat racks or in random other places for me to collect each Sunday. Apparently with all the visitors coming for Advent services, scattered bags of composting fruit rinds detracted from the  lobby decor. I get that, really I do!!

So here's my question - how many of my friends would be willing to save and dry banana peels for Em and Ellie?  And would it be inappropriate to designate a collection area in the church lobby for them? Sorry, goats, not happening. (Really - I will never turn down a banana peel - just give them to me discreetly!)

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Elliot: I sure hope Dad sees the note in his lunchbox reminding him to bring his banana peel home from work! Maybe you should start sending him two bananas each day...

Where's Henry? (Of Waldo, Goats and Hippos)

This was not our most creative year for Halloween. I had originally considered themes from both Star Trek and Disney's Frozen, but the goat boys' growing bulk and general lack of costume cooperation led me to concede to their first choice - Where's Waldo? - after the popular storybook character who blends in with his surroundings. Guess Em and Ellie thought they could sneak in to nibble the shrubbery in our garden's "Restricted Section..." Might have been more successful if they hadn't kept shaking off their matching striped hats and dark glasses. I see you, crazyheads!!

Where's Emerson? Where's Elliot? Even as I laughed at their antics, the day weighed bittersweet as I processed sorrowful news just posted on the Cincinnati Zoo's Facebook page. Where's Henry? I imagined two hippos calling out, unanswered, confused by the silence from Henry's enclosure. Bibi's beloved mate and the father of world-famous (and quite adorable!) Fiona, Henry lost his battle Tuesday to a debilitating illness of several months. Elderly by hippo standards at 36, Henry is described as a "gentle giant" and loved waterfalls, watermelons, and afternoon underwater naps with his "bloat" (hippo for herd). Even when overshadowed by his feisty, celebrity daughter, Henry was dependable and sweet. As a sire to six hippo calves in his lifetime, he certainly left a legacy to this vulnerable species. Regrettably, Henry was indoors under veterinary care during our summer visit to the Zoo, so my memories of Fiona and Bibi are as they are now, a bloat of two.

If you've followed the roller-coaster of Fiona's story since her extremely premature birth in January, if you've rejoiced with her miraculous survival and the joyful reunion of her family this summer - then you are already mourning the loss which surely she and Bibi feel. As I chased my goats around the yard with striped hats and a camera, I wondered, how do you comfort a grieving hippo? How do you  explain why Henry is silent, where Henry has gone? 

The sun is shining. There's laundry to do, dishes in the sink, but that can wait. I think I'll go outside and play with my goats.

 

Goat Enrichment

Something I learned from following one of our nation's largest zoos is that animals in captivity are healthier when they have a variety of "enrichment items" in their habitat. These objects, designed to physically and mentally stimulate the animals, include anything the creature can jump on, climb over, or play with on land or in the water. Our favorite zoo even maintains an "Enrichment Committee" to research and provide these useful items for their animals. (I want that job!!)

Hey, what's good enough for polar bears and baby hippos is good enough for my goats!

With a limited budget, my daughters and I have located numerous enrichment items for Em and Ellie, mostly on trash day and from curbside junk piles. Old wooden pallets, aerobic steps, broken patio umbrellas - the benefit of driving a minivan is that almost everything fits in the back. If it looks like something a goat might jump on, rub against or use for shade, we bring it home.

I say Enrichment; my husband groans at yet another haul of Other People's Junk or Something Else to Mow Around. Semantics...

What could be more important, after all, than the mental health of these two adorable critters?

Strawberries...and Nanny Goats

Mmmm...nothing says summer like fresh strawberries, right? These tantalizing sweet berries are often considered an aphrodisiac - and recently we wondered - does that also apply to goats? Here's why...

A few weeks ago I was at a nearby garage sale, wandering past tables of collectible snowmen and mounds of stained baby clothes, when an unfamiliar woman approached me and interrupted my internal musings (How could any one infant ever require at least eight dozen pastel onesies??). Putting her hand on my arm (ALERT! Unwanted yard sale contact!!), this woman exclaimed, "Oh! You're that lady with the Nigerian Dwarf goats, right? You don't know me, but I've driven by your house and seen them so many times!"

High alert now - maybe she wants to buy them!! If, perchance, she shares my same life/yard sale motto (I'll buy anything for a quarter), I'm ready to offer her the pair for a mere fifty cents (negotiable, delivery included). Already I can envision my new carefree life devoid of endless hours sweeping up goat droppings, chasing them out of the garden, being butted and kicked and pick-pocketed...

My new acquaintance continued, "They're males, right? Your neighbor told me that." Wary, I nodded, ready to claim them whatever gender she preferred, but she was all smiles. Sadly, here's where it all fell apart...

"Wonderful!! You see, my daughter has four Nigerian Dwarf does, and we can't find a male to breed them with. I'd love to rent your goats for a few months, for breeding purposes. What would you charge?"

This is where I had a very evil thought. What if, I wondered, I dropped them off at her house and just didn't mention that rather painful procedure Emerson and Elliot endured some five years ago? (Don't read this aloud; goats have supersonic hearing. Even now I can still hear their agonized cries...)

We should probably never mention that horrid day again - and as the yard sale woman waited expectantly for my answer, I envisioned adorable tiny Emersons and Elliots, happily frolicking with their parents in someone else's field...I mean, what if I let them give it a try? After all, how do we know that the banding was 100% effective?  Maybe we could let them give their best effort for a few months or so, feed them bowls of hormone-enhancing strawberries...maybe by then her daughter would want to keep them, or possibly I could move and change my identity before she tried to return them...

I took her phone number, told her I'd think about it. Then I drove down the road and picked a dozen quarts of strawberries, just in case. How about it, boys? Want to play with four new girlfriends for a while?

To be continued...

Happy Place for Goats, and other small tales

Give Emerson and Ellie a choice of any spot to sleep - they'll always pick right here, soaking up the sun against the garage door. Doesn't look so comfortable to me, but these are the same creatures who munch thorn bushes like candy yet refuse to walk on damp grass...

With the blessed arrival of warm weather, Elliot's skin condition has cleared up and his hair is growing back. See you again in December, scratchy, itchy sores and horrid bald patches!

Emerson (aka "Little Skunk" these days) is up to his usual antics. Last week he sneaked up behind me when I opened the car door and gobbled a map from the seat pocket. No problem, you rascal - next time we travel upstate and I need that map to find my way home, you're the one who'll be missing your warm vinegar water while I'm hopelessly lost in the woods...

Also, he chewed a giant rip in the pocket of my favorite jacket. Sure, a marvelous pile of animal crackers cascaded from the hole, but I ended up throwing the ruined coat away. Now no garment with pockets is safe from Emerson. Got any treats in there, orange peels, anything? Let me bite through the fabric and check!

Today a friendly neighbor left a bag of dried orange peels hanging on the garage door handle for me - unfortunately the goats were outside and found it first. In a few days we'll see what a plastic bag looks like, post-goat digestion. That was yummy!

My daughter recently informed me that sauteed "spruce tips" (as in, the ends of an evergreen tree branch) are a culinary delicacy served in the finest establishments. Since the goats have been nibbling our evergreens for years, I am apt to believe her. Maybe a little garnish of poison ivy?

Ahh, goats...

Of New Jersey and Cardboard Animals...

First of all, let's be kind to New Jersey. After all, this tiny state cannot help that it leads our nation in population density and toxic waste dumps and is also the car-theft capital of the world. Try to get past the fact that New Jersey boasts the highest cost-of-living in the U.S. and remember instead pleasant things like the Miss America pageant, Monopoly, the world's longest boardwalk and fifty resort towns. Site of my favorite childhood vacations, New Jersey was once the home of  my beloved grandmother and currently hosts one of Emerson and Elliot's best friends. The goats adore my New Jersey friend, who takes them for walks no matter how hot the weather, who doesn't complain when Emerson rubs his itchy horn scur on her leather purse and who memorizes which specific weeds they prefer, all the better to pamper them...

So, nothing against the Garden State. Some stories, however, just need to be shared.

We live in an area surrounded by farmland - endless fields of corn, soybeans and wheat. Tractors, barns, and livestock are as common a sight to my family as are the subways, buses and towering skyscrapers of nearby Manhattan to my Jersey friends. On their recent visit here (right after the worst of the snow), my city friends fought their way past the enthusiastic greetings of two very annoying goats and then asked this question:

"Just up the road we passed a field full of animals standing in the deep snow, not moving, like statues. We wondered, are those decorative cardboard cows?"

Now I know what I did wrong five years ago - I should have just gotten cardboard goats!!

(And by the way, New Jersey boasts not only Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, but is the site where the ice cream cone was originally invented. Love you, NJ!)

Winter Wear for Goats

Because with goats, you learn to improvise...

Yes, Elliot has a lovely green winter goat, all Velcro straps and buckles and just right for a goat with a wretched skin condition that causes him to lose most of his fur in cold weather. Yes, he was wearing it when I put them out to graze in the field this afternoon. 

And yes, when I looked out the window about an hour later, there was Elliot, hobbling around with one leg through the neck hole and most of the coat dragging in the dirt beneath him, all muddy and soaking wet and reeking of goat urine. 

How does this happen??

Fortunately, my husband was willing to donate one of his fleece vests to a shivering goat while I did the laundry. (Actually, once he saw Ellie wearing it, he said he didn't need it back...) Stay warm, Ellie! Even with bitter chills and a blizzard on its way, spring has to get here soon! 

Five Years Old!!

                    
                                               Happy 5th Birthday, Emerson & Elliot!

                               Awww, it's hard to remember when they were so tiny and sweet...
                                                                   Love you, boys!

Circle of Trust for Goats

Who would have guessed that goats and humans worry about the same things??

For Em and Ellie, the best part of each day is when I open the gate and take them for a walk, perhaps along the creek or in the woods, where they amble and graze while I ponder all the things I should be doing instead and how much warmer I would be inside the house. Thus hatched my idea - Maybe I could train the goats to walk themselves! After all, they never run off; I don't even use collars anymore. Dogs learn their boundaries - why not goats?

My plan seemed simple - just lead Em and Ellie to their favorite grazing area, pat them on the heads, and go back inside for some hot cocoa (keeping an eye on them through the window, of course). Sounds good, right?

WRONG!! So very, very wrong!

My main concern with leaving them unattended was that they might run off - wander into the road, head for the center of town, something like that. Now I know - this will never happen. Every time I backed away five steps, the goats moved five steps toward me, like a weirdly-choreographed dance. As soon as they realized my intention to abandon them among all those delicious weeds, panic set in. She's getting away! Catch her before she's gone forever! One time I sneaked in the front door while they were distracted, but as soon as Emerson noticed my absence he started wildly running laps around the house, pitifully crying out for me. I know you're in there somewhere!! Come back, mommy! Come back!

Since that traumatic incident, Emerson never strays more than a few inches from my side on walks, wary that I'll succeed in my quest to abandon him. It's like having a big black furry magnet glued to my leg, constantly alert to my location and movements. Kind of creepy, actually. If only they knew they have no cause to worry - if there were any way to escape from those crazy goats, I would have already found it.

"Free to good home - actually, Free to ANY home - 2 neurotic goats. One is clingy and occasionally vicious and the other has an incurable festering skin condition."  Yeah, the phone is ringing off the hook...

Swing Set to Shed Transfiguration

Under our Christmas tree this year were all the usual items - books, clothing, new cell phones, more books...I opened a cat puzzle box and a framed photo of Timothy Olyphant. (Any other Justified fans out there?) And the goats got a new house...

It started out as free lumbar, scraps discarded from a friend's old swing set. Plenty of wood for some cheap improvised shade in their grazing field - or so I thought. Two weekends, three trips to Home Depot and a hefty credit card bill later, Emerson and Elliot now have their own "summer cottage" complete with brand new siding, a shingled roof and multi-level interior.

On their first day out there, they ignored all the weeds and gnawed four shingles off the roof. This is why I love goats...Now if only my husband could build a time machine and send them off into the future! (Anyone else have a swing set to give away? Always worth a try.)

Hot Buckets

When a relative told me last month that her grandchildren were getting goats, I wanted all the details. When? How many? And of course, WHY?? I had met these three children - well-adjusted kids active in school sports, with sensible, educated parents. Goats? Are you sure? Maybe you heard wrong and they're really getting a puppy.

She explained that, yes, they had decided on a trio of Boer goats (the big kind, with horns, like the ones pictured above). Apparently they had a lean-to shelter out back which the goats would share with a pair of sheep, and abundant weeds in the field would provide their food source. Best of all, there was a year-round cold spring where the animals could drink.

STOP RIGHT THERE!! BEFORE WE GO ANY FURTHER...(Meatloaf, anyone?) I felt burdened to warn her, before it was too late - Not sure about sheep, but goats will never drink cold water! Nothing below 60 degrees (I read that in a book) and certainly not from an icy spring in the ground. Anyway, how can you add vinegar to an underground spring?

Eager to share my knowledge, I explained what my husband refers to as "the drinking game."  Emerson and Ellie will partake only of water warmed in a teapot on my stove, in special buckets with a generous splash of apple cider vinegar and the occasional animal cracker mid-drink to entice them to finish the bucket. Amused by our twice-daily regimen, my husband asked me how goats survive in the wild. Really, though, how many wild goats have you ever seen? All the proof I need.

Here's the unbelievable thing. That family has had their three new goats for over a month now, and never once provided supplemental water. Somehow, the goats are still active and hearty. Em and Ellie would shrivel up like prunes before sipping from a cold spring. I just can't figure it out!

Hot buckets, boys!! (They come running every time.)

The Things You'll Do for Love...

What would you do for those you love?

Hopefully you wouldn't push someone out a window (literary reference, if you're confused), but where do you draw the line? Would you give up your dining room table? Would you dig through a smelly trash can? Humiliate yourself in front of a roomful of people?

That's the thing about goats...

Recently I was lamenting to my mom that I was almost out of dried orange peels (Em and Ellie's most favorite snack). Citrus season is just starting, and I had exhausted the supply stored in the basement from last winter. Since peels are part of their daily routine and an effective way to entice them to drink their water, this was a serious problem!

Fast forward to last Wednesday night, when I was helping with childcare for an English-language class at church. After the session, I brought the children to their parents and was delighted to see that the evening snack had been oranges - hence an entire trash can full of orange peels (among other things...) I didn't even hesitate, immediately sorting through the garbage to rescue the treasured treats.

Suddenly the room was very quiet, as all the parents watched their children's teacher forage for discarded food scraps. "Oh, not for me," I explained, simultaneously attempting to pantomime a goat while switching to my feeble high school Spanish. And while I now know that the Spanish translation for goat is la cabra, and eating is comer, what I actually said (instead of "My goats eat them") was either "I am eating a herd of wild horses" or "the mackerel is itchy" (depending on the inflection).

It was one of my four-year old students who broke the stunned silence and saved the day. Unfazed by the stares of the adults in the room, he lunged forward and pointed to a mound of peels in the very bottom of the clear trash bag. "You miss one! You miss one!" As his horrified mother (holding her newborn) watched, he dove into the trash with me.

Right. We can always wash our hands...I smiled at his enthusiasm, knowing that my dining room table would that night be covered with trays of drying citrus, and my goats would be happy for a week.

I'm sure Emerson and Ellie would have done the same for me!

Happy Goat Halloween!

This year we decided to let the goats choose their own Halloween costumes - and Emerson knew just what he wanted.

Elliot tried to be an angel, but he kept eating his wings and running out of the photo. Oh well, at least they got lots of good candy!

Happy Halloween, everyone!