Kid Countdown

Well the countdown is on.

The race to the first babies of the year includes the following three participants, each scheduled for the launchpad on the same day: Hannah Belle, Miss Melly, and Scouty. We hope we don't get a baby blizzard like we did one day last year.

1) My daughter Hannah Belle (ND) is huge. Last year she had a set of really beautiful triplets: Peanut, Boxcar Betty, and Goatzilla. The farmer thinks she will probably have triplets again.

2) Miss Melly (ND) is not so huge. Last year she also had triplets: Tux, Top Hat, and Turkish Delight. All three of them looked exactly like her - mostly black with white here and there. They went around in a little miniature gang causing trouble and vandalizing the hay bales. They were known on the street as The Three Little Priests.

3) Scouty (Nubian) looks like Moby Dick, and she rolls to the surface in much the same way when she gets up in the morning. For the first time ever in the history of the farm - this is quite disgraceful - we do not know who Scouty is bred to. It is either the Captain or Wrusty Nails or possibly both. In any case her kids will be miniatures. If they have blue eyes we will know where they came from. If not we won't. We expect them to be very cute whatever happens.

The date is set for the 17th of February. Today is T minus 11.

Bring it on, Ladies.

Greetings from the Black Hole

Hello everyone and greetings from inside the Logan horse trailer.

I have been sent to solitary.

Why, you may ask?

I do not agree with the decision that I should not have any kids this year and so I went down to visit my boyfriend(s). My boyfriend(s) all agreed with me that I should be allowed to have as many kids as I want and that free love must be the underpinning of any happy goat society and that they would be happy to do their part in establishing my reproductive rights if they could just squeeze through the 2 inch holes in the fence wire, which they proceeded to attempt with heartwarming enthusiasm and determination, along with true revolutionary zeal and an outright refusal to submit to the so-called laws of physics.

The farmer came down and said, "you should not be coming in heat any more, it is February," and the frog march was on. Up we went to the black (actually it's white, except for the moss growing on everything this time of year) hole. Steel door slammed shut behind me. Began working on a book of prison poetry.

No use my pointing out that the Peanut calendar was supposed to be published today and wasn't because the farmer is supposedly so busy, so how am I supposed to know what month it is?

Anyway I am in the horse trailer, where it is actually quite pleasant. All meals and VAT included, English breakfast, and so on.

We have been tagged by another blogger but unfortunately we are not allowed to play tag here because it always ends in tears.

However I can tell 7 facts about myself:

1) I was born in Walla Walla.

2) I have the prettiest goat beard in five (King, Pierce, Thurston, Mason, and Kitsap) counties.

3). I like to hike but not to backpack. If someone wants to carry my pack - a packperson is fine - I would be happy to hit the trail.

4) I like to watch TV.

5) Eo is not the boss of me.

6) I love to drink milk and will drink it from a bottle, a bucket, a pan, or anything else even though I am almost five.

7) I know how to open the kitchen door of the farmer's house.

Betsy's Big Little Friend

The farmer came out the other day to see what is always an alarming sight: the tail ends of 13 goats in the down-below pasture, all lined up at the fence, bunched together, and staring as one at something down in the gully where the creek comes along the bottom of the hill. (Actually, to be precise, the tail ends of 12 goats; I wisely jumped into the hay feeder, a much better fortified position.)

Because the creek is in a dip, the farmer couldn't see what we were looking at, so came running - or, should I say, "running," since the farmer's style of "running" lacks speed among such other things as style, grace, and dignity - down the hill. When the farmer got close enough to see over the hill, the farmer saw an extremely large coyote, possibly the largest ever seen around these parts.

The farmer "ran" back up the hill to get the gun, and came "running" back down again, even more winded, even less graceful, and at an even slower pace. Nonetheless, the coyote had not left: he stood staring boldly at us and licking his chops, like a greedy guest at a lavish wedding reception, with an expression that said "should I start with hors d'oeuvres or dessert?"

The farmer hollered for Atty all this time, and Atty finally hove into view (he only works nights) just as the farmer got the gate open to come into our pasture. Right at that moment, little orphan Betsy - who is, after all, half Nubian - broke into a friendly trot toward the gargantuan coyote. She had apparently recognized him as a former neighbor or chum from school, and was halfway down to greet him by the time the farmer "ran" in front of her and took off the safety and swung the gun into position and fired off - well, nothing.

The gun wasn't loaded. So the farmer began yelling and waving the gun overhead and "ran" closer to the coyote, now followed by Atty, and we all watched as the coyote finally, grudgingly, turned and demonstrated how running is really supposed to be done.

The coyote, which was nearly as big as a German Shepherd, turned and coursed away effortlessly in artful zigzags - they know you are going to be shooting at them - across the wetland, sometimes ducking down into the canary grass and sometimes leaping mockingly above it, streaming out a long bushy red foxlike tail behind him.

And the farmer kept yelling at him, but somewhat admiringly I think, and threatened him with seven kinds of destruction should he ever return - sentiments echoed by Atty in a much more convincing tone - and stood and watched him for several minutes, until he disappeared into the big woods.

The Big Chill

It is very cold here and the farmer is in a tizzy, trying to decide whether it is better to burst the pipes or burn the barn down with heatlamps. Sometimes it seems like these are the only kind of choices we get to make.

The other day the neighbors called with some kidding problems and the farmer went over to help. Two babies had been born and gotten chilled. Sometimes it is too cold and there is just nothing you can do. In the end, they could only save one.

If you are home alone on a freezing day and some baby goats get born, remember to do things in order and that will help.

1. Make sure the kids are breathing. If they aren't, slap them around like you mean it and puff some air into their lungs. I wouldn't ordinarily say this, but see if you can make them cry.

2. Get them WARM. A baby goat that is shivering will be okay. A baby goat that has stopped shivering will not be okay - do that one first if you have to choose. A wet baby goat that has stopped shivering is going to die soon.

3. If the kid is reasonably warm, and it's breathing, then you can worry about getting some colostrum into it. Okay?

Some farmers have a policy that animals have to stay outside as nature intended, and if they can't make it out there, then so be it. The farmer's friend came over yesterday and told a chilling story of a local sheep rancher - all the lambs are born in the pasture! How barbaric!

Luckily we don't have that policy here, but please don't tell anyone or some of the other farmers might make fun of us. Here our policy is: fleece jackets for the chilly babies and a box full of straw in front of the woodstove, with round-the-clock room service.

Just like nature really intended. Or nature wouldn't have made us so cute and adorable.

Penrose and Paula

Well, when it is nice like it is today you can almost believe that the spring will actually come. Personally, I think it will.

The spring is one of the most exciting and harrowing times of the year, because that is when the kids come. We never know what they will look like, or if they will have any trouble getting here. We hope not, because it puts everyone in a bad mood when they do.

I am not having kids this year, but two of my daughters - Hannah Belle and Blue Umbrella - are. So we know that at least some of the kids will be astonishingly beautiful.

The farmer is excited, I'm not exactly sure why, because it appears that Penrose has settled - this is what they say when you are going to have kids - on an AI breeding to a very prestigious buck. Penrose's kids will be the first AI kids born here, if in
fact they materialize. Penrose is very sneaky about her kids. When she looks like she's bred, she isn't. And when she doesn't look like she's bred, you come out one morning and a gaggle of tiny toggs has materialized out of nowhere.

But anyway, Penrose's frozen boyfriend goes all the way back to the most famous dairy goat in modern American history, the only goat ever to get a mention in Time magazine's "People" section. If you have a stack of these lying around, you can go and look up May 5, 1961.

That goat is Puritan Jon's Jennifer II, bred by Paula Sandburg (wife of poet Carl Sandburg and sister of photographer Edward Steichen), who was and is one of the most famous goat breeders - if that isn't a contradiction in terms - ever. Jennifer II, out of Paula Sandburg's legendary Chikaming Toggenburg lines, broke the all-time record for dairy goats of all breeds in 1960 by producing 5750 pounds of milk in a single year.

I am here to tell you that that is a lot of milk.

Jennifer II's record stood for decades, back in the days when the Toggs were the smallest of the dairy breeds.

But anyway the funny part is that even though Paula Sandburg was known for her Toggs and her Saanens, her favorite breed was the Nubians. Who could even guess why, probably because they didn't have Nigerians back then.

Oh well, to each his own.

Loving January

It is too bad it isn't summer because then I could catch a lot of cool delicious shade just by standing anywhere north of Scouty. She is throwing a big shadow. In fact you could just about park a car in it.

But it isn't summer, it's January, and the snow came down last night in cheerful little flakes, which I like, but now the flakes are turning to sleet, which I don't like. Because then they turn to rain, which this time of year any more rain is a little de trop, as they say in France. It justs makes more mud, and we are tired of mud, all of us, even the horses.

But we are trying to find a way to love January anyway, because the farmer's friend says if you stand around saying, " I hate this time of year, I wish spring would come," or anything like that that you might feel inclined to say on the 99th consecutive day of rain, then you are just wishing your life away.

And if you wish your life away you always get your wish.

So we are concentrating on loving January, which isn't easy, but one thing I love about January is that you never get too hot, even when your winter jacket is rich and luxurious like mine.

And another thing I love about January is that February comes right after it.

And if I come up with anything else I will let you know.

But in the meantime, it's January, and I love January, it's one of the best times of year.