A Care Package for the Goats

A friend recently asked me to list my daughters' ten favorite things - limited to items she could both afford and fit in a shoe box. (Sorry, Megan, the life-size Batmobile is out!) Apparently she wanted to mail each of them a "college care package" of special treats. Hmmm...well, Emily likes gourmet tea bags, homemade granola and chocolate-covered raisins; Megan craves pistachios, avocados and sardines in mustard. A good book is always a winner...

But here's the problem - now the goats are jealous. Where's our care package? And so, in no particular order, here is a list of Emerson and Elliot's most favorite things for anyone interested. (Warning - they don't all fit in a shoe box.)

Fresh fruit (especially apple chunks and watermelon, but never pears, peaches or cantaloupe)

Pods PODS! PODS! PODS! (from locust trees, the crispy brown seeds that litter the ground and crunch up so delicious...)

"Orange chips" - a favorite snack created by drying orange peels in the sun until they are hard and crispy

Animal crackers - the more stale, the better. Graham crackers are also an acceptable substitute.

Hot water (which we gave them in the winter and has somehow become a year-round requirement; they turn away at anything less than steaming) and...

Apple Cider Vinegar - in large quantities a necessary additive to their water bowl; they reach their tongues under the bottle to catch the drips as I pour it in and refuse any water not "soured" as they watch

Super-fresh "right from the bale" hay (not to be confused with hay that has been in the feeding tub over an hour and therefore become unacceptable from exposure to air and sunlight)

Paper of any sort, including school assignments, shopping lists, pages from a book or the mail

"Walkie Time" - anticipated daily activity when they are released from their fence to run free and graze wild weeds for an hour or so, and...last, but definitely not least...

Orange Mitten Massage (pictured above) - this bizarre thick rubber glove is so coarsely textured that I had to ask the woman holding the yard sale what on earth its purpose could be. (Apparently it is designed for scrubbing vegetables or peeling potatoes.) Not a bad deal for a quarter, I told Emily, The goats will love this! And they do, lining up for a good nightly rubdown by "orange mitten." Emerson often carries it around in his mouth, looking for someone to wear it...

So, to my family and friends who already drop off watermelon rinds, orange peels and bags of weeds or pods, many thanks from the grateful goats. (What's that - spoiled?? Not my goats!)

Disparity (the word is)

Sometimes, what you wish for is not really what you want. It took a midnight phone call and a smashed watermelon to make me realize this.

Last week I compared Emerson and Ellie to perpetual toddlers, needy little creatures who would never learn to fend for themselves.  Unlike my own daughters, now embracing college life away from home, my sweet goatbabies will forever be dependent on me to meet all their needs. Feed us, walk us, save us from the rain - this will never change. Unfortunately, the goats misinterpreted this as criticism, and now they are working diligently to assert their independence.  First, Elliot learned to open the fence gate with his nose (Hey, we can let ourselves out now!) and then those rascals started finding their own food. My husband recently picked a large watermelon from the garden and brought it up to the deck, forgetting that this fruit is a caprine delicacy. So quick they leapt up and rolled the melon off the outside table...Smash! So yummy! And it even broke into two halves - one for each of us! Don't bother chopping apples today, mommy, we got our own snack. 

Ahh...snacks. Before sending my daughters off to college, I took them grocery shopping for snacks to take along. It was a fun "mother-daughters" outing with no restrictions. (I even bought six cartons of ice cream for myself!) In farewell notes I wrote for them, I told them how much I'd miss trips like this, as well as things like Megan's two-foot high stack of books in the living room, and how Emily always asked me for help finding just the right words as she typed essays on her laptop in the kitchen.  I tried to focus on the positive aspects of their new adventure, stoic and dry-eyed even at the infamous "cry-and-bye" candlelight ceremony as we left them on campus, shedding no tears all that next week - until I once again entered our local market and found myself confronted with all my girls' favorite foods, aisle after aisle of treats I now had no reason to buy. A week's worth of tears flowed freely as I numbly filled my cart with bread and milk and eggs, smaller portions now for just two of us. I may have filled the cupboards, but the house is still so empty...

Monday night I was woken by a harsh jangling sound - the telephone? Fumbling in the dark for the receiver, I glanced at my alarm clock - after midnight! Now in full panic mode, I managed a stuttered "hello?" as I pushed myself upright. The voice which greeted me was cheerful - and strangely familiar.

"Hi Mom, this is Emily."

Instantly the innate "Mom-to-the-Rescue" response was activated, my senses on full alert. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? What happened? Are you okay?" Phone in one hand, I was already reaching for the car keys (hospital? police station?) as she continued.

"Well, I'm writing an essay, and I just can't think of the right word for my conclusion. Can I read you the sentence? It's due in the morning."

I turned my disapproving alarm clock toward the wall and closed my eyes as she read aloud. In a dance so familiar, we struggled together for the word she sought - conundrum? quandary? dissonance? -  but this was not our night and finally I left her with a poor substitute and the reassurance that the professor wouldn't notice. And yet...It was about an hour later that the elusive word emerged from the depths of my groggy brain. I crawled from my bed to text her, knowing she could still make the correction before her morning class.

Her response on my screen is one I'll never delete - "THAT'S THE WORD!!!!!!!!!"

How fortunate that our children need us for more than snacks. (Goats, on the other hand...)

A Reminder of Home

Financial aid, health forms, housing, class scheduling, textbooks, packing - the logistical challenge of sending a child to college is daunting. Compound the process by launching two at once - this has consumed our summer. Of course, overshadowing all the administrative details is the emotional component, a fear that we won't stay connected, will they forget all about the parents who raised them these past eighteen years? I made sure to take customary precautions like sending along family photos and threatening to cut off their cell phone service if they don't call home regularly, but still I worried. Then, with only a week to go, I found Emily digging up weeds in the overgrown bank behind the house.

"Are those for the goats?" I asked, although this would not explain the heirloom milk-glass pot in the dirt next to her.

No, she explained that she had decided to transplant some of the wild meadow tea plants which I frequently plucked to brew a delicious, aromatic beverage during the summer months. She would nurture the plant on her dorm room windowsill, she told me, and steep the leaves in a mug of hot water to remind her of home. Nostalgia overwhelmed me as I recalled how in years gone by she would stand on a stool beside me, helping to add just the right amount of brown sugar to the pot...and then I knew this college thing was going to be all right. The bonds of home-brewed tea are not easily broken. I helped her with the arrangement, and by the night before "Move-in Day," the little plant had flourished.

Determined to fit all their belongings into one minivan, my organized loading scheme quickly fell into chaos. (I tried to eliminate unnecessary items, but Megan assured me that red stiletto heels and purple lipstick were definitely both on the mandatory freshman packing list...) I carefully set Emily's potted tea outside on the deck until it was time to leave.

Finally, just enough time to take care of the goats. I opened their gate, as I do every day, calling for them to follow me to their fenced field, as they do every day. Yet, when I looked back, the goats were not following me; in fact, the goats were nowhere to be seen. What on earth...? Then, horrified, I remembered. Not only do goats have supersonic hearing, they also have a supersonic sense of smell, which they had now used to scent and track down one of their favorite snacks just waiting for them on the deck...and by the time I got there, it was all over.

Once again, I ask myself, why???

Open Sesame?

My sister recently shared with me about her research on bird omenology, where people in certain cultures base all their daily decisions on the observed behaviors of birds in their environment. I am skeptical of such superstition, and yet...in the past three days, three things in my life have been accidentally left open or unlocked, each time with potentially disastrous consequences and each time related to goats. What is the meaning of this?

First, on Sunday morning I woke to the sound of rain pounding on the roof. When I went outside to check that Em and Ellie had dry hay in their shed, I noticed that my husband had left all his car windows open. This concerned me, as I recalled an incident several years ago when I drove to work one sunny afternoon, only to realize on my drive home at midnight that the headlights were not operative. After a harrowing trip by only the moonlight, I confronted him. "Did you know your headlights are both burned out?" His reply astounded me. "Oh, that," he answered. "They got shorted out when I left the windows down in the storm last week, but I figured I'd just drive in the daytime until I got them fixed. I guess I forgot about you working late..." This time I made sure to thoroughly dry the entire interior, and I tested all the electrical components (after checking on the goats, of course).

That was Sunday. On Monday my daughters and I went to our local town fair to drop off produce from the garden for the vegetable judging. We were planning to go home after registering our cabbage, squash and beans, but at the last moment decided to walk across the fairgrounds to see the baby goats in the petting zoo. Then we noticed the funnel cake stand, and several hours passed before we returned to the parking lot, where I saw in horror that my front passenger door was wide open. Somehow in our impromptu decision to visit the goats, I had neglected to close the car door, leaving my wallet, keys and an envelope of cash right on the seat. Thankfully we must live in a town of honest people, as everything was still there, but it was quite a while until my heart stopped pounding as I considered what might have been.

Monday evening I went to work until past midnight, hoping to sleep in the next morning.  However, I awoke just after 6:00 am Tuesday to my husband urgently tapping my shoulder. "You have to get up!" he exclaimed. "The goats are loose." Someone had apparently left the gate unlatched the night before, and the goats were having breakfast in my flower beds, gleeful in their new-found freedom and determined not to be caught. I can only imagine what I looked like madly chasing the goats around the yard in my pajamas.

Three days, three things left open or unlatched. Is this a sign? Surely it can't be related to my goats, as I only have two, and yet...at a yard sale Saturday, just before this all started, I saw a sign advertising "Baby Goat for Sale." She was so adorable - and maybe three is a better number than two...I think I might just have to drive by that farm again tomorrow.

Toddlers (with hooves)

Apps, otters, data plans?? Under pressure from my college-bound daughters to upgrade our cell phones from the bulky models which have served us well for nearly a decade, I posted a query for help on a popular social media site. Surely my tech-savvy friends would guide me into the smartphone maze, I thought - but I received a mere two replies. Apparently the flaw was in my timing, as another friend had just posted a question on a controversial topic which quickly garnered dozens of opinions and overshadowed my little phone question.

My friend, a scholarly working mom of two elementary-age children and one extremely large cat, posed this query. Her children desperately wanted a puppy, and they had promised to do all the work. Opinions, anyone?

First, I picked myself off the floor and mopped up my coffee from the counter. What was she thinking?? Anyone who has ever had children or pets will attest that there is only one person in any family who cares for the animals - the mother. I responded, Will your kids scrape up festering dog poop and partially-digested groundhog vomited into the rug? Will they scrub out skunk smell or lift an injured dog (who soon outweighs them) into the minivan for an emergency vet visit? Will they take the puppy outside for nature's call in the middle of the night or in a snowstorm or during the World Cup final? I didn't think so...

I love animals, really. Since my daughters were born, I have cared for two rabbits, four cats, a dog, a guinea pig, a goldfish and a pair of goats. Somehow, I never learn. Get a puppy, I responded, as long as you are willing to do all the work for the next fifteen years. Another mom put it better - "A dog is like adding another child - a toddler - forever."

I shudder. The mere mention of toddlers dredges up long-buried nightmares of potty-training, temper tantrums, absurd preferences and irrational fears. They run off, they smack and bite each other, they never listen...Oh no. I realize I'm describing Emerson and Elliot. My goats are toddlers, reincarnated. And yet...

With the countdown to college fast approaching, there is some comfort in having two toddlers (goats) who won't pack their books and wave goodbye. With children, of course this is the endgame; I always knew that. You teach them to tie their shoelaces, ride a bike, bake cookies, drive a car. If you do it well, you work yourself right out of a job, and one day, off they go...and that's why everyone should have goats. Like toddlers, they'll forever be dependent on me to feed them, treat their scrapes, keep them safe. They'll never turn down a treat, a hug, a story, a bedtime lullaby. They won't go off to summer camp and be "too busy" to call for weeks at a time, or choose a movie with friends over a mom bearing snacks...

Don't get that puppy yet, my friend; spend this precious time with your kids. The years go by so fast. Then, when the kids are ready to leave home, that's the time to get your puppy. Better yet, get a goat... 

Stupid Is...

Making supper last night, I opened a jar of pasta sauce, only to have my daughter grab the jar and scrutinize the label. "Mom!" she exclaimed, "You can't use this! It has HFC in it!"

"H-F-what?"

According to my health-conscious teenagers, it is no longer enough to monitor sugar, salt, and saturated fats. We also need to avoid HFC, or high fructose corn syrup, a component in nearly everything I buy in a jar (jams, sauces, pancake syrup, salad dressing...). Megan informed me that consumption of this common ingredient must be avoided because "it makes you stupid."

"How can that be?" I asked, "I've been eating this stuff for years."

(And yet, I do have goats...Surely there is no correlation?)

Apparently, Megan claims, the "stupidity" side-effect has been scientifically proven by experiments with mice. Rodents who were fed HFC eventually lost their ability to find their way out of a maze. (My suspicion is this - maybe the test mice, suddenly fed a diet of hot-fudge sauce and blackberry jam, didn't want to leave the maze. Hey Stuart, this new food sure beats dry nuts and seeds! Let's just keep wandering around in here and get the good stuff!)

Back to the goats...here's how I know that something in our diet is decreasing general intelligence. Whenever friends, relatives or complete strangers learn that we have goats, they always want to know first whether our pets have the foul "stink" for which bucks are known. I explain that Em and Ellie are neutered males, and therefore devoid of noxious odors. Invariably, the next question is, "Do you milk them?"

Really??? In what alternate universe do we milk male livestock? 

My goats are two of quadruplets. My own daughters, twins. Once, a woman in an elevator peered at my identically-dressed toddlers in their double stroller and commented, "They don't really look alike. Are you sure they're twins?" (Well, yes, I actually am...)

More recently, a school classmate chatted with both girls (one blonde, one brunette; one fair-skinned and freckled to her sister's darker complexion). "I never realized you were twins!" he remarked. "Are you identical or fraternal?"

Maybe we all need to stop eating HFC!!

My Beautiful Goat

This morning the goats both had bloody heads. That's right - black fur, white patches, and between the ears, sticky with red. The first time this happened (a year or so ago), I was fraught with panic, grabbing the first aid bucket and the emergency vet number. Now I'm just relieved that their head-butting game has likely saved me the trouble of wrenching off Elliot's latest scur, or overgrown horn bud, which was growing ominously downward toward his skull. A quick check confirmed my suspicions that the blood was all Ellie's, and all he needed was a spritz of blukote to ward off the flies swarming his wound. Anyway, there are way worse things than a broken scur.

Last month my husband remarked, "Elliot looks so good lately - his coat is perfect!"  Yes, I wanted to shout, he looks amazing - because I fixed him!! This pristine goat with his sleek fur and flawless skin is indeed the same animal who vexed us for a year and a half with a horrendous skin condition resistant to all treatments, including (but not limited to) topical and injected parasectisides, antibiotics, steroids, anti-fungal powder, skin scrapings, multiple biopsies under anesthesia, evaluation by an Ivy League veterinary school, massage therapy, lime sulfur baths, the wearing of socks and t-shirts and the "cone of shame." Nothing worked, no clear diagnosis could be made, and when last winter hit with its bitter ferocity, I just gave up.

Then spring came, and I tried something new, and I cured him.

I wanted to gloat, to tell everyone I knew, to call my vets and my farmer friends and write a blog about this amazing thing. Come see my beautiful goat, I would gleefully offer to everyone who had known him at his worst, all mangy and itchy and scabby. I could brag a little... and I should have, before my window of opportunity closed once again.

I bought a little wooden table at a yard sale a few weeks ago, thinking how much fun the goats would have jumping on and off it. Well, apparently Elliot had a bit too much fun with it, stretching his front legs over the table and then rubbing his belly rhythmically up and down over the edge. By the time I realized what he was doing and got my husband to hold him upside down for an examination, Elliot had rubbed himself so raw that a very critical part of his "boy-goat" anatomy was in peril of detachment from his body. (That's right - due to his earlier neutering, he only has one "boy-goat" part left, and it is not one a male of any species can afford to lose.) The table is gone, the first aid bucket is back, and poor Elliot is once again subject to daily wound treatments with betadine and antibiotic creams and all that...

So come see my beautiful goat. (Just don't look too closely underneath.) And pray I can fix this problem too.