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!

Baby Bully

Right up there at the top of any life's most embarrassing moments list - when your goat attacks a small child in front of half a dozen witnesses...

If our goats took one of those trendy internet Sorting Hat quizzes, there's no question which house they'd claim. Sweet, gentle Elliot was born a Hufflepuff - meek and unassuming, he'd share his last orange peel with anyone who asked.

His wily brother, however, is Slytherin to the bone. Sneaky and calculating, Emerson head-butts Ellie for the best position at the hay rack, the juiciest tomatoes, the spot closest to the gate. Although smaller, he is the Alpha Goat, always first, always in control. His philosophy is: Just follow my rules, and no one gets hurt. 

Sometimes I forget. Last week we hosted a picnic, and one mom told me how her 18-month old daughter just adores goats (from local petting zoos), and could she see Em and Ellie?  Pride (and a little stupidity) kicked in as I lifted the toddler into the goat pen, smiling as she waved her hands and shrieked, "Goat! Goat!" Elliot ambled over, docile as the little girl leaned against his side and stroked his fur.

Nice goat, sweet goat, Why is that tiny human giving my brother all the attention? This needs to stop! and suddenly there was Emerson, head-butting her out of the way, and as she tumbled to the ground crying (though fortunately unhurt), Emerson calmly rubbed himself against my legs... My turn for attention now, Mommy!

Sure, you can pet my goats. Just put on these knee pads first, this helmet, this Kevlar vest...

Hurricane Isabel and the Ladybug Tree

It was thirteen years ago today - no electric, no school, and faced with the cleanup from Hurricane Isabel, the strongest, costliest and deadliest storm of the 2003 Atlantic hurricane season. My daughters were 7 years old; we had a dog, but no goats. This was the wreckage of our sweetgum tree, heavily damaged by gusting winds from what had been a vicious Category 5 storm that wrought devastation all along the eastern United States.

Affecting 60 million people, Isabel caused 3.6 billion dollars in damage, the cancellation of 1500 flights, and massive flooding that left some areas without power for nearly a month. Fifty-one people died. Looking back, our family got off easy - we had electricity back a day later, and this was the worst of the damage. Yet all these years later, I still think about Isabel every September. The sweetgum tree survived, but we lost our ladybugs forever.

Fast forward to today, when the leaves from this tree are my goats' most favorite "self-serve" snack. They troll beneath its shady canopy, devouring each crunchy leaf that falls while carefully avoiding any oak leaves in the mix. And I tell them the story...

For about a decade after we moved here, we were fascinated each autumn by the arrival of thousands, maybe millions of ladybugs who annually blanketed the tree's entire trunk from the ground up. Each year the tiny creatures stayed maybe a week, just being there, then they were gone. With little knowledge about migratory patterns, we wondered - where had they come from, where were they going, was it the same ladybugs year after year who rested on this particular tree? Just like the start of school and the relief of cooler weather, the arrival of the ladybugs was an anticipated family event every fall.

Until Isabel. Expected around the time of the storm, the ladybugs never came. Not that year, not the next, not any year since. (Yes, I still check...) Casualties of the storm, or maybe, hopefully, just blown off course? Do they now frequent another tree miles, or states away? Perhaps in another yard, on another sweetgum tree, two little girls skip to the bus stop each morning and stop to greet the ladybugs.

Eat up, goats. Enjoy each succulent leaf. I may prefer a chocolate milkshake, but I do believe there is something special about the sweetgum tree.

Anti-sleep conspiracy?

Speaking of cats - well, we weren't, but I'll get to that...(and goats too)

Several nights ago the phone rang at 1:30 am - groggy and panicked I grabbed the cordless while my husband ran for the hall phone. A pleasant male voice greeted us.

"Uh, is Maggie there?" (Name changed to protect the innocent, or my daughter away at college)

"What?? No, who is this?"

"Well, we're working on a group project together, and I had a question..."

"THIS IS HER FATHER - " (Angry Darth Vader voice, lecturing her mortified classmate who somehow thought he had her cell number) And really, who calls at that time for any reason, even though it turns out she was at that moment awake and baking scones with her roommate...

Last month we were awakened by a pounding on the door at 3:30 am, greeted by a uniformed police officer holding a small yapping terrier. He had found this collarless dog wandering the street, and spying our fenced yard, thought it might be ours. Really?? At this hour?? And would we need six-foot fencing for a dog little bigger than my cat?? My husband noted later that we should be glad the officer asked, and didn't just drop the dog in the fencing. Look, Emerson, we got a new toy! Except, my goats are terrified of our pet cats...a dog in their habitat might transform them into fainting goats!

Fast forward to last night, again mid-sleep, when I suddenly woke to an awareness of something small and furry, with claws, creeping across my stomach. Shrieking, I leapt from the bed and flipped on the lights, only to realize (once I could breathe again) that the midnight creature on me was in fact merely my cat stretching out his back leg across my body. (In retrospect, I am probably safe from nocturnal rodents with a feline who sleeps nestled against me!)

Sorry, goats - no walk today. Mommy really needs a nap!!