Acronyms for Goats

Today my daughters took their high school final exam in English - that glorious study of not only poetry and literature but also such fascinations as personification, oxymorons, alliteration, symbolism, paradox and iambic pentameter. You may wonder the value of knowing that "zeugma" refers to when one word modifies multiple words with different meanings, as in "He was deep in thought and debt." (Right, deep is the zeugma in this quote from poet Alexander Pope.) Let me expound...

Even goats can benefit from a basic knowledge of literary terms. In our family, an acronym commonly used is "L.O.P." (not to be confused with "L.P.") - generally delivered in an exasperated shout and meaning "loss of privileges." For example, if Em and Ellie are taken on a walk to a non-fenced field and suddenly bolt toward the road, I might scream "Goats!! L.O.P!!" as I chase them back to their pen. Or if Emerson has chewed all the rubber edges from his comfy sleeping mat, I sternly chastise him with "L.O.P!" as I yank the mat away and leave him on the hard concrete. Loss of privileges can occur when someone knocks over the entire treat bucket because he is too impatient to wait his turn, or when two naughty goats dash into the garage if the door was left open, or when a mean rascal head-butts his brother to the point of drawing blood in order to get all the good weeds.

We are more like goats than we may dare admit, as humans also experience L.O.P. For misbehavior such as speeding or inappropriate texting, you can lose your driver's license; non-payment of bills results in the loss of phone service or electricity. Your library card is dependent on prompt return of books and fee-free banking requires a minimum balance.

So why can't my goats behave? Poor Elliot (rarely the culprit) is so confused. Each time I yell at his skunky, malicious brother, "L.O.P.!!!" - sweet Elliot immediately stops and empties his bladder. We finally figured it out. Affectionate as he is, Ellie is just a bit daft, and I believe what he hears instead of "L.O.P." is "Ellie, go pee!" (Go ahead, say it out loud.)

What a good goat I have! 

Initials for Short

We have acquaintances whose youngest daughter has always been called "L.P." As her older siblings all have ordinary names, I once asked what the letters stood for. Her response was enlightening. Although she has a given first and middle name (unknown to most people and neither starting with "L" or "P"), her nickname stands for "Last Pregnancy." Apparently her parents decided early that they needed a constant reminder that four children was enough. Still the baby of the family, L.P. is now in college, so I guess it was an effective plan.

Infants can be so adorable; the temptation is enormous. I have a well-meaning aunt who frequently sends me photos and videos of frisky baby goats, sweet things frolicking in the sun or looking at me with luminous brown eyes - and yes, I want a baby goat. I want to hold it on my lap and nudge a bottle into that tiny mouth and wipe the milky drips from a downy chin...to let it fall asleep in my arms as we rock on the swing in the sunshine. I think I know a breeder who still has a few available...

First, though, I have to finish a little cleaning outside. Overnight Emerson and Elliot had what we now call a "newspaper party," where they pry apart the mats in their shed and then shred the insulating paper all over the yard. There are huge piles of droppings to sweep off the deck, and I noticed someone has started eating roof shingles again. (I'm not sure how they were still hungry after getting into all the strawberry plants!)

Let me introduce you to the culprits - L.G. #1 and L.G. #2.

 I hope it works!

The Fence Attempt - Take 5 (by Emerson, Guest Blogger)

Let's review the plan one more time, Ellie, just in case she tries to put us in that awful fence again. Pay attention! She'll drag you in first like always - put up just enough fuss to wear her out. Meanwhile, I'll take off across the field. When she finally catches me, I'll whine and tug against the leash while she drags me up the hill, then thrash into the ground and make choking sounds from my way-too-tight collar. You pretend to be grazing contentedly, but when she opens the gate to shove me in, you rush over and escape. Imprisoned, I'll hurl my body against the gate while she chases after you, and when she catches you again, wrap your leash around her foot so she ends up inside the fence with us. By that time she'll be so out of breath she'll just sit down and pull out that book she keeps in her backpack with our emergency snacks.

Listen up! While she reads in the fence with us, we'll fill our bellies and lure her into a false sense of security as she slowly inches toward the gate. Notice anything, brother? Me neither; I'm just happily eating these weeds over here... When she makes her move, we'll be on that gate like a flash - did she honestly think we would let her out? Hot and thirsty (and strangely unwilling to drink from our water bucket), she'll just give up. Victory is ours! Freedom! And it's a race to the deck - who will get there first? Will it be Super-Ellie, Speedy Skunk, or the Stupid Slow Human? Hurry it up - we need some animal crackers here!

Phase Two is all me, Ellie. You're too transparent. Can't you see it now? And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to...Emerson! This is where I act so traumatized by the experience that I can't settle down. I do the whole panting, tongue-lolling, wide-eyed quivering thing (goat-on-the-verge-of-a-heart-attack-all-the-fault-of-a-mean-horrible-human) so convincing that she panics and sits on my bench next to me and sings my favorite lullaby until I fall asleep.

I could get used to this...I wonder if we're doing the fence-thing tomorrow?

Delicious - or Dreadful?

A child of the sixties, I grew up in the era of Dr. Benjamin Spock and "tough love" and letting babies cry themselves to sleep. Though I have no memories of my earliest years, I am told that I suffered a severe separation anxiety and fear of being alone in my room at night, often climbing out of my crib to lie wailing on the floor with my tiny fingers (palms up) scrabbling under the door frame, frantically trying to pry the door from the hinges. Such was my terror of being locked in my room all alone.

I know how Emerson feels.

A few months ago we invested significant time and money in fencing our side field for the goats, providing them with a wonderful weedy grazing area much larger than their fenced yard next to the house. Here, we reasoned, they could safely forage for hours on wild grasses, thornbushes and poison ivy - all the things goats love. We call it "The Delicious Field" (because they used to love grazing there).They call it "Prison," "Little Corner of Hell," or "No-Way, No-How Are You Getting Us Through That Gate!" They were content when I sat in with them, but since they realized the field is a place where they are left alone, they now equate it with the terror of abandonment. Emerson refuses to eat out there, instead running in giant frantic circles, crying and throwing his body against the fence.

Yesterday I was determined to put them in the field. It was a warm day and I was just too busy to stand and watch them graze along the outside of the fence (their usual practice, cleverly staying far from the gate). I assembled all the required tools - collars, leashes, animal crackers, pods, Emily (home from school for the morning). With substantial bribery I half-dragged, half-lured Elliot through the gate, where he gave a peremptory fuss but then wandered off to forage, resigned to his fate. Emerson was fighting Emily with everything he had, but the two of us finally overpowered him, heaved him into a wagon and maneuvered him inside the fence.

Only one problem - I was locked in with them...

After about ten minutes Emily was able to lure Emerson away from the gate with a handful of pods, but as I tried to sneak out I glimpsed a flash of black fur and there he was, tearing toward the house at roughly twice the speed of light. Blasted goat! I found him cowering on the deck, shaking and panting, perhaps hoping I wouldn't find him. We sat together on the deck as he slowly relaxed and laid his head on my knee. This is the goat who stands on a bench outside the kitchen window and watches me wash dishes. Don't try to leave me out there ever again, Mommy. I just want to be where you are... 

Hot Bowl, please!

The flooding of the goat shed was actually my fault - a tactical error brought on by good intentions...

When my daughters were about a year old, my sister accused me of being obsessed with their hydration status, noting how I fretted about their fluid intake and constantly offered them sippy cups and little juice pouches. As teenagers, they easily regulate their own fluids, but my long-dormant nurse instincts now have other critters to monitor.

Two key fact about goats. First,adequate water intake is critical for wethers (neutered males) because of their tendency toward urinary blockages. Second, goats detest cold beverages, preferring to drink only water warmer than 60 degrees F. (As my daughter Megan says, "I read that on the internet, so it must be true!") Over the winter we regularly treated our goats to "Hot Bowl," which used to be a teapot but is now a gallon milk jug of steaming hot water from the bathtub tap poured into their favorite metal bowl. Additionally we discovered that a splash of apple cider vinegar made this heated treat nearly irresistible, and I took pride in every bowl they drank. It's something like the satisfaction a mother feels when her child eats broccoli...

With the advent of spring weather, I have encouraged Emerson and Ellie to accept their water simply warmed by the sun, but they are resistant to this change, often circling the bowl with sniffs of disdain. We can't drink this tepid stuff! Where's the steam rising off the bowl? Unacceptable! Periodically they gag down a tiny sip to quench their parched throats, sometimes even lifting their tails over the bowl so I am forced to refill it with clean (and hopefully warmer) water. And don't forget the vinegar this time, human!

Friday was cool and rainy, and the goats were stuck in their shed for most of the day. I noticed that the water bucket was still full after several hours and was of course concerned about dehydration. Poor goaties - when they saw me coming with the steaming hot water jug, they leapt up in delight, slurping the bowl dry in less than a minute before looking at me expectantly. More? I ran back inside to refill it, not once but three more times as they gleefully guzzled the hot water. Four entire gallons those thirsty goats drank, before I kissed them goodnight and headed in to bed myself, relieved that I had rehydrated them and likely averted a health catastrophe. I was tempted to warm myself up with a cup of tea, but decided against it to avoid a middle-of-the-night call to the bathroom. Only as I was drifting off to sleep did I wonder what would happen to those four gallons of water filling two goat bladders...Was it sort of like giving your potty-training toddler a super-sized juice cup right before bed?

Much worse, actually. Fortunately they could cling to the hay rack to stay afloat, though it took me all morning to mop out the shed. From now on we have a one-bowl limit at bedtime...

Not the Meatloaf

I pulled into the driveway late afternoon, after a grueling day of re-certification testing at work. Mentally exhausted and stressed from fighting through horrendous traffic and road construction, all I wanted was a bowl of ice cream and a few minutes on the couch before I thought about cooking dinner. My two daughters greeted me on the sidewalk, an unexpected but pleasant surprise. (I didn't realize how much they missed me!)

"Mom, we have two things to tell you..."  Trust me when I say this is never good to hear from a teenager.

Apparently Emerson had somehow gotten into the house earlier, squeezing himself through the back door left open "just a crack." The girls quickly reassured me that they were cleaning up the damage, and hadn't I always said I didn't like that blue armchair anyway? It's almost like the goat did us a favor, shredding up those cushions...

At my icy stare, they retreated, still blocking my way to the front door as I asked, "And the second thing you have to tell me?"

"We made supper! It's almost ready."

It was like heaven's angels erupted in song around me - my wonderful children, all is forgiven! For a night off from the detested chore of cooking, I'd let Emerson eat an entire couch. I hugged the girls and opened the front door to a savory aroma which effectively covered any lingering goat scent...mmmmm! Peeking in the oven I spied sizzling potatoes and a lovely meatloaf. Even my husband (who moans that I cook too much chicken and fish and not enough red meat) would be happy tonight. Maybe the girls would let me take the credit...

Emily served everyone a plate and Mike eagerly took his first bite, just as Megan asked, "So, Dad, how do you like the lentil loaf?"

I think the events which followed are best summed up like this - while the healthful "lentil loaf" (a close cousin to tofu, in my mind) may look and smell like meatloaf, it has a taste all of its own. Or, as Mike growled while he scraped it into the sink, "You know what you should add to make this edible? How about meat?"

Actually, I was thinking bacon...

I wonder if goats like lentils?

Pods!!

Last fall we discovered that the goats' most favorite crunchy snack was these long brown seed pods from our honey locust trees. Since they quickly devoured all the pods from our own two trees, this led to a hunt all over town for similar trees so we could stock up on winter treats. Emily and I hit the jackpot one November day at a local park and harvested enough pods to fill the entire trunk of my car, and last week a friend gifted us with two more large trash bags of pods which had survived the winter covered in snow. The goats were ecstatic, but now we have a storage problem as the garden shed is already full and the pungent odor of the pods makes me reluctant to leave them in the garage.

Yesterday, driving down the road, we spied the solution - a portable container apparently designed just for goat-owners, capable of holding all the stinky treats you'll ever need. Now I just have to convince my husband that one of these will look perfect in our driveway...