Tubster

Peaches' yearling daughter Jules, who is also known as Tubster, is very sick today. We do not know why. Lori came out in the morning and found her very ill. Please keep your fingers crossed for Tubster.

Advice for Getting Born

Hello. My name is Hopscotch, aka Wrusty Jr. I have some advice for getting born, if you are planning to do that.

My advice is: it isn't easy, but the best thing you can do is pick out a good mother, keep your head pointed downstream, and then just go with the flow. Don't fight it. And if it doesn't work out, try again next time.

Ok. Good luck.

Harley

This is my grandson Harley (aka Herron Hill's Harlequin Romance.)

The farmer thinks he is very pretty and may let him go as a buck if he goes to a nice farm.

He is BlueBelle and Filbert's big brother.

Cleo

This is one of Scouty's mini-Nubian daughters, lifting her landing flaps into place.

Her name is Cleo and she has a very pretty face.

Considering.

Babysitter Boy

Well believe it or not, Wendell has turned out to be a pretty good babysitter. He loves staring at baby goats and following them around. Once in a while when they get tired of their own company, they will play with him, and that makes his day. Today Filbert showed him how a wheelbarrow should be used.



He was also playing with BlueBelle, whom everyone has taken to calling Betty Jr., since she is the spitting image of Betty only prettier (if that's possible) and with wattles. The farmer says she is the prettiest Nigerian ever born here, which I guess could be true since I wasn't born here.



This year Captain January is paying us back - last year he had thirteen kids and eleven were girls. This year he has had six so far and only one girl. But the farmer says if they are all as pretty as BlueBelle it will be okay. That means there is a whole gang of happy-go-lucky little wethers hopping around the place.

A New Record

As you know, my family is known for being escape artists. We pride ourselves on living the family motto: if your fence doesn't hold water, it won't hold us.

And I must admit, while I was always very good at getting out of things, including trouble, my daughter Hannah Belle surpassed me to claim the title of Supreme Grand Houdini, once even neatly dismantling a truck canopy when she wanted to get out of solitary F150 confinement. But now there appears to some competition on the horizon.

The farmer has been 'working' somewhere, and gone long days, and during these long days the babies and mothers are supposed to stay in their stalls and not go out, because the babies are too little. Well, that is fine for mini-Nubian babies, they wouldn't think of going anywhere, especially not without their mama, and of course they don't know the first thing about escaping, even if they did want to go somewhere.

And as for the three little priests, they are "good boys" according to the farmer, and that means they have no initiative, and spend their days hopping around like little beans and cozying up with Miss Melly in a cloyingly sweet way like they are waiting for a photo shoot.

But I'm proud to say that when Lori came home yesterday, Hannah Belle was out of her stall (of course) cruising the alfalfa stack in the barn aisle.

And in her wake were my three little grandchildren - Harlequin, Bluebelle and Filbert - fully escaped at the age of five days old. No one knows how they got out.

But it was a new record.

Warm Milk, Please, For Here

My three new grandchildren examine the strange environment they find themselves in, seeking clues that will help them deduce which planet they have arrived on, and where the room service button might be concealed, and how best to begin living in the luxurious style to which they have every right to become accustomed, being who they are and all.

Ego Te Absolvo...

Go and sin no more...

Miss Melly and the Holy Fathers

I guess they are KIND of cute. Anyway they seem to have a tiny spark of personality, so things could be worse.

Which Way is Up?

Wrusty Jr. can get his mini-Nubian ear up, but the full Nubian ear just won't cooperate...

Whew!

Scouty catches her breath before popping out her second quadruplet.

....But Not Least

Well, every year somebody is due on or around Valentine's Day. But then every year nobody quite manages to make the delivery deadline. So Cupid had not hit the mark around here, until yesterday.

Once Hannah Belle saw that the deck had been cleared and her opening acts were safely offstage, she dropped out three adorable little boys in prime time. One looks just like Betty from last year, and he also complains extensively, just like Betty. One is brave and stoic like Peanut with an occasional muted peep; the third is very hungry, and also an all-new color scheme for my family.

We will get the pictures up soon.

Happy Valentine's Day, little boys.


Ed. Note: Unfortunately, we have had to let Lori go from her job sexing baby goats. Hannah Belle had two boys and a girl, contrary to what was originally reported. The little boy who looks just like Betty is actually a little girl. Just like Betty. We regret the error.
(For those of you practicing at home, the little boys will be the ones with testicles.)

And In Second Place...

The Smart Money is crying in its beer again: on Tuesday night Miss Melly popped out triplet bucks, three little black ones again - another set of crybaby priests.

One, I have to say, is roaning out and may end up being cute. The others are xeroxes of last year's models. Black and white xeroxes, not a speck of color anywhere - trouble in triplicate, just like last year. Fine if you like garden variety Nigerians.

Meanwhile Hannah Belle gets bigger and bigger, and causes more and more trouble. She likes to make an entrance; I understand that.

She's my girl.

The Rites of Spring

A sophisticated goat like myself sometimes gets tired of living in the country. There is no good coffee and no free wi-fi and just try to find a sushi bar or an art museum. Many times in the midst of a cold dreary mud-filled winter I have asked myself why I don't just move to the East Village and get a beret and stop worrying about whether or not the Nubians will find their way in from the rain.

Who can count the times I have stood in the barn, calling "this way, Boo! Go through the thing we call a 'door' and you will be inside! Walk toward the light!"

Never a card or a note of thanks or even an appreciative nod. Nothing.

And this winter was snowier and colder than most, and I was getting bone tired of it. But just when I was good and fed up, everything changed, as it always does. First off it got a lot warmer almost overnight. We went from sub-freezing temperatures every night to days in the 50s and nights in the 40s - ah, balmy!

And as soon as that happened, Scouty, who may be smarter than she looks - well, actually, she MUST be smarter than she looks - popped out her little mini-Nubian quads, the first kids of spring. I'm not a big fan of Nubians, but these have some Nigerian heritage and for some reason - maybe I am getting old - I just think they are cute as the dickens.

And what do you think happened that very night? Down below in the pond - Lost Beaver Lake, as we call it - the frogs started singing their beautiful froggy chorus, which signals the official start of spring.

So now I have started feeling sorry for the poor city people, instead of envying them, as I did all winter long.

How sad it must be to live in the city, with nothing but sushi and capuccino and free wi-fi to keep you from bursting into tears every single day, as you hunt hopelessly for a blade of grass, a frog, a baby goat to call your own.

Forgive me while I dry my eyes.

T Minus Nothing

As you know, the kidding countdown started just a couple of days ago, and it was scheduled to run until February 17, the supposed due date of the three competitors, who had all been bred on the same day. The three competitors were Hannah Belle, Miss Melly, and Scouty, with the smart money favoring Hannah Belle (my daughter, aka Hannah Belle Lecter), because she never goes 150 days.

The farmer was worried about Hannah Belle because she was as big as a 747 without any of the aerodynamic advantages, and she had injured one of her feet and was not getting around very well. So Hannah Belle was being cosseted and coddled while everyone else practically had to grow their own hay.

But if you have ever been to the race track, you know that the smart money often sits alone at the bar after the ponies have all gone home, wondering how such a sure thing could go sideways in such a hurry. And as you also know from your kidding handbook, if a doe is going to have a LOT of babies, she isn't going to go 150 days either, even if she isn't Hannah Belle.

143 is plenty.

Scouty, being a professional, had read the handbook, and about two hours ago, while Hannah Belle was being spoonfed tapioca pudding or something like that, she won the pool by popping out a set of quads.

She had the first two up and dressed for school by the time the last two arrived, about five seconds apart. The second two quickly got with the program, and after a thorough all-over tongue scrubbing, followed by three or four small meals for everybody, the entire family is now napping in the honeymoon suite in the barn.

Three girls and a boy.

Martha Stewart could not have done it any better.

Congratulations to Scouty.

R Ewe Kidding Me?

We saw this story about a geep born on a German farm.

A what?

Click here.

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.