He Made It

Well I don't know why people are always saying they are going to do this that and the other "if the creek don't rise." Because the creek always rises. I don't know why I am thinking about that because we are in the middle of a Northwest drought with no rain predicted until the weekend and temperatures in the mid 90s and right now as far as the creek there isn't any but I guess it is the kind of absence that makes the heart grow fond because I was just thinking about the creek, the way it burbles and so on and how darling that is except when it is burbling up to your neck the way it does most times around here but not now as already mentioned since there is no creek anywhere much less up around your neck. How tiring it is to think these complicated thoughts.

Anyway we have had a lot of visitors this summer way more than usual including visitors from Qatar and Korea and Oregon and Seattle and Burien and Puyallup and Belfair and Oakland, California, not to mention Longbranch right down the road. And some people came to take the cheese class and they came right at the time when we were most worried about Moldy's little son Chance who looked like he might not be long for this world and the people in the cheese class were all very sympathetic and they hoped he would do well and especially one very nice lady and when she was leaving the farmer said, "well, I will let you know how he does," and the lady said no she would be so sad if he didn't make it so best not to let her know anything and the farmer said, well all right then, I will only let you know if he makes it. And she said no, then if you don't let me know anything I will know he didn't make it. And the farmer could see this was all quite sensible and agreed not to tell the lady anything.

But anyway he made it.

Today Chance went out in the front pasture for the first time and he enjoyed it very much. Willen the fat Haflinger came over to look at him and smell his breath and then gave a little stamp of approval and Chance disappeared into the herd like an ordinary baby goat and that was that.

World Famous Betsy

Funny story about Betsy. When she was just a kid, she went to the Puyallup Fair. She misbehaved badly in typical fashion, Betsying around incorrigibly, but she won a blue ribbon.

That year the Tacoma News Tribune had sent a photographer to do a photo essay on the Fair. They probably do this every year, but that year for some reason he was drawn to the goat barn. The farmer saw him several times walking up and down the aisles, among the Alpines, Nubians, Saanens, Oberhaslis, Toggenburgs. Inevitably he was drawn back to the LaManchas.

The farmer chatted with him and he explained what he was doing. "I see," said the farmer.

Up and down the aisle he went, always ending up in front of the stall where Betsy crowded the bars, jumping up to try and catch his shirt, snatching for his camera, investigating his pockets, while Wronny huddled against the far wall, shrewdly avoiding all the lookiloos and stuffing herself with free hay.

The next day Betsy peered out at the world from the front page of the TNT, looking extremely Betsyesque.

The farmer showed Betsy the picture. She didn't care; it wasn't edible. The next year - a year when Betsy did not even go to the Fair - her picture was turned into the TNT blog icon, and she was on the front page of the paper every day the Fair ran.

So Betsy was pretty much the TNT's official goat of the Puyallup Fair.

They could have picked a bigger or a smarter or a flashier goat. But they could never have found a Betsyer goat. Because there isn't one.

East of the Mountains

One of the farmer's friends has a family saying. It is a euphemism. It comes in handy to soften bad news. The saying is: East of the Mountains.

Here it is, used in conversation:

"What happened to that old cat Tiger?"

"Tiger went East of the Mountains."

It means Tiger is dead. Everybody in the family understands. It is a way of saying what you don't want to say. It is a way of telling the truth without telling it.

But what are you going to tell if you don't tell the truth? Nothing, that's what. We had an embargo on bad news because there was just too much of it.

That prevented us from telling an important story. And it wasn't right.

We were waiting for what should have been the last kids of the season. But it became apparent as Betsy went into labor that the kids inside were no longer alive. We don't know why. And when Betsy could not deliver them and the farmer couldn't get them out, the only hope was a c-section to save Betsy's life. It didn't work.

Even on this black day there were grace notes - once again, indispensable help and kindness from friends. And the luck to be in the hands of a good old-fashioned farm vet, who called a halt to surgery when it was apparent what the outcome would be. And then did what more vets should have the courage and kindness to do: he put Betsy down immediately when he saw, after the opening incision, that her uterus was ruptured.

At the start of this year our herd had three titans: Hannah Belle, queen of the Nigerians and Baby Belle's oldest daughter; Betsy, the magnificently goofy head of the part-Nubian Betsy Family; Brandy, Queen Mother of the LaMancha herd.

Now we have Brandy, 13 and tough as nails, as irresistibly ornery an old bird as ever walked the barnyard.

We lost Betsy. We lost her kids. If you want to know who Betsy was and how much we will miss her, just go to the search box and search "Betsy."

It's not a story we wanted to tell. But we can't live East of the Mountains. We have to live here.

What Goes Around: Wendell's Woes

Wendell got hopped up on sticks.

Wendell has a friend named Jack. Jack is a mostly blue heeler with a little bit of border collie. Wendell is a godawful pest as you know. Wendell and Jack have opposing philosophies on sticks.

Jack lives for someone who will throw a stick. Then he runs and gets the stick. AND HE BRINGS IT BACK.

Wendell also loves sticks. He lives for someone who will throw a stick for Jack. Then he runs and gets the stick, ripping it away from Jack if he has to, AND HE RACES OFF TO HIS SECRET STICK STASH AND THE STICK IS NEVER SEEN AGAIN.

The farmer would never consider throwing a stick for either Wendell or Jack. What a waste of energy. But when the farmer's nieces were here, the first thing they did was starting throwing sticks for Jack. Jack was in heaven until Wendell arrived and started stealing all the sticks.

Unbeknownst to anyone, Jack had been getting madder and madder about the sticks for years. And he finally snapped. The two best friends erupted into a big snarling ball that surged across the lawn.

"It will be fine, " said the farmer blandly. "They are hopped up on sticks. Just let them fight it out."

About one second later blood started spurting and Wendell gave a yelp and dropped the stick and ran to the farmer to be coddled as he always does when a trip to the emergency vet is imminent.

The farmer took him inside and wiped away the blood to see where it was coming from and it was coming from one of his eyes. His eye quickly filled up with blood, turning completely red on the inside in a matter of minutes.

Quick trip to the emergency vet, where it was a quiet day except for a lady in an Acura, who brought in a dreamy-eyed Bichon Frise who had eaten a pot brownie. Wendell was diagnosed with bloody eyeball caused by crushing injury and sent home with a pack of medicine. Bad news? No, the eyeball was unpunctured and did not deflate and after a few days it started  - very slowly - to clear.

Flashback one, two, three, four, five years: young Wendell has enjoyed a lifetime of tormenting Laddy the Tennessee Walker by sneaking up behind him and nipping his heels or pulling his tail, then scurrying away laughing. Laddy has never been able to retaliate because of the skillful scurrying.

Fast Forward to the present: Wendell is out in the pasture snacking on horse poo. Our pasture is an Olive Garden of horse poo. Perhaps because of his impaired vision, he makes a critical strategic error, turning his back on Laddy who is only about 15 feet away. Laddy gets a gleam in one of his big eyes, and in one, two, three, four lightning steps, he is on Wendell before Wendell sees what is happening (Wendell's bloody eyeball is squinted almost closed.) He delivers a direct boot to the middle of Wendell's back.

Wendell gives one short yelp and drops to the ground. He allows himself to be carried into the house without even a whimper which makes everyone think he must be very seriously injured. He takes one of his eyeball pain pills. He sits on a cushion. He eats a treat and simpers. Everyone gazes at him expectantly, talking to him and about him in hushed tones. Isn't he a darling dog? Isn't it awful what happened to him? Perhaps the end is near.

It isn't. He's fine. It's a miracle, but he's fine.

Somewhat sobered, obviously, and a tad bit sore, because payback is a _ _ _ _ _. (Rhymes with hitch.)

Good News.

There has been so much bad news this year that it was just decided by the management that there would not be any more until further notice. And if there was bad news it would not be printed or mentioned or referred to until the bad news embargo had passed completely which could take a long time possibly forever since the bad news quota for this year was filled before the end of March.

Okay so the announcement came that the second round of hay was being baled and some of the people who were supposed to help suddenly had other plans and impetigo and hyphema and throbbing bunions and several kinds of palsy and surprise birthday parties and so on and the size of the Hay Team dwindled to a very dismal level but was this bad news? NO.

A team of crack hay specialists from Korea flew in to take the place of the indisposed and the fainthearted and also the farmer's pal from Longbranch pitched in out of the blue and the hay practically marched into the barn. The hay trailer did not get stuck halfway up the driveway - that would never happen - and it did not have to be partly unloaded to get it unstuck, and there was no cussing or yelling, that would be unseemly, and after the Hay Team finished stacking The Hay in the hayloft there was enough left over to make a beautiful Hay Nest for Moldy's little son Chance in the back of old Brownie.

There is always a chance that things could have gone a little bit better, but really I don't see how in this particular case.

Yes, the chariot is a-coming. And no, I don't want it to leave me behind.

TV CFN Penrose Point

That was her name.

You always know there will be days like this. But that doesn't help when they come.

Yesterday the farmer found Penrose lying slumped against the fence behind the barn. She looked like she had just fallen over. Like maybe she had a heart attack.

Last week we were laughing because everyone is growing out their beards but Penrose can't grow hers out even though it is a nice one because every baby here comes and stands under Penrose's chin and chews her beard down to the nubbins so it never gets more than an inch long. Because she won't shoo them away.

She was never sick a day in her life and we don't know what happened. Probably her heart was too big if I had to guess. The last thing she did was give some extra milk for Moldy's little son Chance.

She came here from Walla Walla in the back of an old Ford pickup truck with my grandmother Baby Belle when she was a kid. She looked just like an ordinary run-of-the-mill Toggenburg. But she wasn't.

Penrose was nine years old.

Waiting for Helena

Ok we are taking applications for a new farmer the one we have is stove in from bucking hay and the worst part is the hay season is nowhere near finished. If you want to apply send an application. The job description is very hard work very long hours very low pay, the benefits are few and limited, the drawbacks are many and numerous, the qualifications are doesn't panic easily and isn't afraid of goat berries. Slow-moving and dull-witted would be nice. It is what we are used to.

In other news there was no mention made for a long time of Moldy's son Chance. This was because there was fear of jinxing him because this has been the kind of year where every little fly in the ointment seems to turn into big trouble. Anyway when Chance was born he was a spindly little runt and he didn't do very well. From that unpromising starting point he suddenly went downhill fast, getting sicker and sicker and weaker and more lethargic until he hardly had the strength to hold his head up.

Lori took him and put him on two hour bottle feedings all through the night and the farmer gave him two kinds of special medicine and a dose of vitamin B and selenium and gradually gradually gradually he started to get better. And yesterday for the first time ever he ran and skipped like a real baby goat although he weighs about as much as a hamster.

You would never want to say someone is out of the woods. That would be bad luck. And anyway the woods around here are very dark and deep. But he did run and skip and it was a good time for a small miracle like that because everything else was going to hell in a handbasket. In fact if Betsy ever has her kids, the last kids of the season, and one of them is a girl, she is going to be called Helena Handbasket. Even though it is a C Year.

So now that Chance looks like he might be back on the rails we are just waiting for Helena. Come on out, Helena. Your handbasket is ready and waiting.