There was a blue moon and nothing happened.
We thought something might happen but nothing did.
The list of volunteers to go to the Fair and sit around looking middling includes:
Belle Starr (Little Belle)
Betty's Blue Clover (Clover)
Can of Worms (Candy)
Crescent Moon (Moony)
Chocolate Martini (Marti)
Creme de Cassis (Cassis)
Maple Hollow (Rosie)
These goats have all been selected for no other reason than that they are agreeable and friendly. Except Rosie, she is disagreeable and unfriendly, but we need her for groups. Also Cassis is not the friendliest, and she looks a little better than middling. But we are bringing her anyway.
The downside of middling is that you look middling. The upside is there is no pressure. This way they can sit around and relax. Anyway you have to adjust your expectations to reality. It is no use these goats walking around thinking they are fabulous-looking like me when the plain middling not-too-bad truth is right there for everyone to see.
We are not taking any milkers because we need the milk at home. At the Fair you have to throw all your milk away. You would cry if you saw all that beautiful milk going right down the drain.
I feel bad for Candy and Moony though because they will have to show in the LaManchas and the best LaManchas in the country will be there and a lot of them but their only mantra is 'don't come in eighth' because the premiums stop at seventh place. Also they will be the smallest ones in their class because they were born late. Two strikes. Also they are known to be from a slow-maturing line with fabulous udders, the kind that starts to look good when they are about three. How many strikes is that?
On the plus side they are in the same class so only one of them can come in last.
Join us in rooting for Candy and Moony with this rousing Herron Hill cheer: come in last if you have to, but don't come in eighth!
Sunday, September 02, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Fair to Middling
It is time for the Fair and everyone here is looking middling. No one looks spectacular. Who wants to go to the Fair and sit around looking middling. That is a lot of work for nothing. Red ribbons, who needs them.
Pinky and Xie Xie both look good but they are too thin, they milked down too far. So did Abby. Pinky Jr. is a big strapping girl and she looks good, but that's because she doesn't have enough milk. Blue and Betty might be fairly presentable if they bagged up for about a week. Maddy has at least one screw loose and certainly can't go anywhere near the general public. Moldy is too fat. Clover is too fat. Speaking of Clover, Pebbles looks like the Sta-Puf Marshmallow Goat.
Winjay looks fantastic except her udder sticks out the back about four feet, like a second grader drew her. If she were a drawing the title would be: "Earless Goat Walks Bravely Into Hurricane, Udder Sails Out Behind Her."
That's a long title but it's best if people know what they're looking at.
"You are doing that on purpose," the farmer says grimly every time Winjay walks by with her windblown udder.
Marty is going into an awkward phase, Crayola can't go or Crumpet either, they are too precious and would certainly catch something. Fabulous last place Wronny is even older and more stove in than she was the last time she went to the Fair and got last place.
So you would think we might stay home. Wouldn't you?
Pinky and Xie Xie both look good but they are too thin, they milked down too far. So did Abby. Pinky Jr. is a big strapping girl and she looks good, but that's because she doesn't have enough milk. Blue and Betty might be fairly presentable if they bagged up for about a week. Maddy has at least one screw loose and certainly can't go anywhere near the general public. Moldy is too fat. Clover is too fat. Speaking of Clover, Pebbles looks like the Sta-Puf Marshmallow Goat.
Winjay looks fantastic except her udder sticks out the back about four feet, like a second grader drew her. If she were a drawing the title would be: "Earless Goat Walks Bravely Into Hurricane, Udder Sails Out Behind Her."
That's a long title but it's best if people know what they're looking at.
"You are doing that on purpose," the farmer says grimly every time Winjay walks by with her windblown udder.
Marty is going into an awkward phase, Crayola can't go or Crumpet either, they are too precious and would certainly catch something. Fabulous last place Wronny is even older and more stove in than she was the last time she went to the Fair and got last place.
So you would think we might stay home. Wouldn't you?
Monday, August 27, 2012
Hannah Belle 2.0
Yesterday some of the unfortunates got shaved for the Fair. It is surprising what is under there sometimes. Fat little Clover actually looks fairly presentable. Candy and Moony are cute as 2 buttons.
Nobody mentioned anything about it, but everybody thought the same thing when Belle Starr went under the clippers.
My goodness. Isn't it uncanny. She's the spitting image.
Friday, August 24, 2012
The New Pile
Winjay the Hun has been reprimanded for T-BONING Crumpet, who weighs 7.5 pounds.
"That is disgraceful," the farmer hollered, lumbering along to snatch Crumpet up out of harm's way just in the nick of time.
Winjay had to put her head almost to the ground to do it since Crumpet is only about three inches tall. She got a big stripe of pasture dust all over her face since it is dry as a bone here now, you would not believe how dry it is.
"That is a mark of SHAME!" hollered the farmer, pointing at the dust stripe.
"So what," muttered Winjay, flouncing off.
Crumpet gave a little sad mousy squeak and was rushed to the grain bin to drown her sorrows.
Well, anyway that reminds me of how everything had to shift a little bit here since we don't have Penrose any more and there is no way to ever replace her.
When their mothers were busy stuffing themselves with hay, or off foraging for something else, the babies would go and sleep in a pile with Penrose. Especially at bedtime. Many times the farmer would come out and the moon would be high and the frogs would be singing and the mothers would be stuffing themselves with alfalfa and their babies would be in the Penrose pile and Penrose would be chewing her cud and gazing toward infinity, possibly cataloging all the stars in the galaxy.
Now there is a new pile and I was a little surprised who is at the middle of it. It isn't any of the Sopranos, obviously. I thought it might be Xie Xie if push came to shove, but no, she has taken to headflipping stray babies away. I also though maybe Pinky Jr., she is very mild-mannered. But no.
Maybe Moldy or Abby the Crackpot Oregonians, I thought, they seem to like babies. Just then Abby bit little Chance's ear. No blood or anything, but still. Maybe Betty, I thought, and then laughed bitterly. Betty! Ha! That's a good one.
So I gave up guessing and you probably did too but anyway when I was looking over at the big barn last night I saw a pile. Drabby was in it, Chell's plain little daughter, and Crumpet and Crayola, and Blue's girl Cloudy, and Clover, and Champagne was thinking about joining, and there in the center were Creampuff and Crumbles, and they were all clustered around Bumbles.
That's right, Jammies' Little Bumblebee. And there was an air of snoring contentment.
"That is disgraceful," the farmer hollered, lumbering along to snatch Crumpet up out of harm's way just in the nick of time.
Winjay had to put her head almost to the ground to do it since Crumpet is only about three inches tall. She got a big stripe of pasture dust all over her face since it is dry as a bone here now, you would not believe how dry it is.
"That is a mark of SHAME!" hollered the farmer, pointing at the dust stripe.
"So what," muttered Winjay, flouncing off.
Crumpet gave a little sad mousy squeak and was rushed to the grain bin to drown her sorrows.
Well, anyway that reminds me of how everything had to shift a little bit here since we don't have Penrose any more and there is no way to ever replace her.
When their mothers were busy stuffing themselves with hay, or off foraging for something else, the babies would go and sleep in a pile with Penrose. Especially at bedtime. Many times the farmer would come out and the moon would be high and the frogs would be singing and the mothers would be stuffing themselves with alfalfa and their babies would be in the Penrose pile and Penrose would be chewing her cud and gazing toward infinity, possibly cataloging all the stars in the galaxy.
Now there is a new pile and I was a little surprised who is at the middle of it. It isn't any of the Sopranos, obviously. I thought it might be Xie Xie if push came to shove, but no, she has taken to headflipping stray babies away. I also though maybe Pinky Jr., she is very mild-mannered. But no.
Maybe Moldy or Abby the Crackpot Oregonians, I thought, they seem to like babies. Just then Abby bit little Chance's ear. No blood or anything, but still. Maybe Betty, I thought, and then laughed bitterly. Betty! Ha! That's a good one.
So I gave up guessing and you probably did too but anyway when I was looking over at the big barn last night I saw a pile. Drabby was in it, Chell's plain little daughter, and Crumpet and Crayola, and Blue's girl Cloudy, and Clover, and Champagne was thinking about joining, and there in the center were Creampuff and Crumbles, and they were all clustered around Bumbles.
That's right, Jammies' Little Bumblebee. And there was an air of snoring contentment.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Upstairs Downstairs
Wronny has been raising her two sons Halfway and Gulliver this year and since they are young princes they dine with Wronny everywhere she dines and Wronny dines everywhere since she is the herdqueen and she can eat whatever she wants and it doesn't matter who else wants it.
Wronny eats her grain and hay and then everyone else's hay and grain and the young princes canter along beside her muttering royal statements like "make way, make way, young princes coming through, peasantry please stand back," and so on and they stuff themselves with their silver spoons and by this time they each weigh about a thousand pounds and are as tall as a Shetland pony. They fancy themselves the Upstairs Goats, and the rest of us are Scullery Maids.
"How kind of you," said Halfway the other day while he gobbled Xie Xie's dinner.
"You may touch my white spot if you like," said Gulliver after hogging all the alfalfa in the feed rack.
In between their ten times a day grain and hay feedings they each guzzle about a gallon of Wronny milk. Their idea of portion control is that they control all the portions.
Everyone else just looks at them bitterly and pretends to like them. "So handsome! So regal!"
"Would you mind just moving just a tad bit out of the way?" they are always asking, then hogging the best spots to lie down.
"Of course not," says everyone else, looking daggers at them.
Well the word came down today that they have been sold and are leaving for their new home very soon and the chorus of fake sadness that welled up would deafen the gods. The insincere expressions of sorrow were many and numerous, with nobody wanting to be outdone.
"Not! Not Gulliver and Halfway! Our two royal ponies! The sadness! The sadness I feel coming on! I'm sure it will hit me as soon as I stop laughing these anguished laughs!"
I did not want to tell them but I had to, it was only fair that they should know that after living their whole lives Upstairs, they will be going Downstairs without their mommy, and they had better start shopping for little frilly scullery caps.
Wronny eats her grain and hay and then everyone else's hay and grain and the young princes canter along beside her muttering royal statements like "make way, make way, young princes coming through, peasantry please stand back," and so on and they stuff themselves with their silver spoons and by this time they each weigh about a thousand pounds and are as tall as a Shetland pony. They fancy themselves the Upstairs Goats, and the rest of us are Scullery Maids.
"How kind of you," said Halfway the other day while he gobbled Xie Xie's dinner.
"You may touch my white spot if you like," said Gulliver after hogging all the alfalfa in the feed rack.
In between their ten times a day grain and hay feedings they each guzzle about a gallon of Wronny milk. Their idea of portion control is that they control all the portions.
Everyone else just looks at them bitterly and pretends to like them. "So handsome! So regal!"
"Would you mind just moving just a tad bit out of the way?" they are always asking, then hogging the best spots to lie down.
"Of course not," says everyone else, looking daggers at them.
Well the word came down today that they have been sold and are leaving for their new home very soon and the chorus of fake sadness that welled up would deafen the gods. The insincere expressions of sorrow were many and numerous, with nobody wanting to be outdone.
"Not! Not Gulliver and Halfway! Our two royal ponies! The sadness! The sadness I feel coming on! I'm sure it will hit me as soon as I stop laughing these anguished laughs!"
I did not want to tell them but I had to, it was only fair that they should know that after living their whole lives Upstairs, they will be going Downstairs without their mommy, and they had better start shopping for little frilly scullery caps.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Monday, August 13, 2012
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.
Saturday, August 04, 2012
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.)
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.)
Friday, July 27, 2012
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.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
TV CFN Penrose Point
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, July 09, 2012
The Festival of Hay and Profanity
It has been a hair-raising week. Moldy had a little son his name is Chance. She is devilishly attached to him and bursts out screaming if she can't see him for even an instant.
All the helpers disappeared just in time for the first round of haying and the farmer was picking up hay alone and the tailgate on the truck was broken and you would not believe the cussing that filled the air. It was a symphony of cussing even I was impressed and I have heard some cussing in my day.
Fritzi and Frodo went to their new home and for some reason everybody got upset about this even though they are just two little LaMancha wethers. Penrose couldn't help it she gave the farmer a lot of accusing looks since she had adopted Frodo and was feeding him when nobody else would and she kept staring at the farmer after they left as if to say "et tu, farmer?" and this did not improve the mood of the place one iota and then Betty got into the wrong pasture and all in all it was a good week to take a black Magic Marker and just cross all seven days off the calendar and don't look back and I think that is what we will do so please don't ever mention this week again and if you have to make a comment try to be sure that your comment is pleasant and cheery or maybe just a little poem you wrote about the sun coming up in the morning with rays of golden joy and nothing about sorrow or heartbreak or broken-down machinery or hay.
Thank you.
All the helpers disappeared just in time for the first round of haying and the farmer was picking up hay alone and the tailgate on the truck was broken and you would not believe the cussing that filled the air. It was a symphony of cussing even I was impressed and I have heard some cussing in my day.
Fritzi and Frodo went to their new home and for some reason everybody got upset about this even though they are just two little LaMancha wethers. Penrose couldn't help it she gave the farmer a lot of accusing looks since she had adopted Frodo and was feeding him when nobody else would and she kept staring at the farmer after they left as if to say "et tu, farmer?" and this did not improve the mood of the place one iota and then Betty got into the wrong pasture and all in all it was a good week to take a black Magic Marker and just cross all seven days off the calendar and don't look back and I think that is what we will do so please don't ever mention this week again and if you have to make a comment try to be sure that your comment is pleasant and cheery or maybe just a little poem you wrote about the sun coming up in the morning with rays of golden joy and nothing about sorrow or heartbreak or broken-down machinery or hay.
Thank you.
Monday, July 02, 2012
Cory Anderson and the Surfing Goat
On Saturday Chella had a little drab baby it was a girl of course since Fred only has doe kids and it popped out without causing much trouble. It isn't flashy like the others it only has one or two spots and it cries a lot for no apparent reason and it is constantly falling asleep just when everybody goes somewhere else and then waking up and bleating like a Highland sheep.
Its name is going to be Coriander but everyone calls it Cory Anderson which doesn't make any sense. The baby is not smart enough to have a name like Cory Anderson. It needs a name like Spot. Right now I can see the baby looking around blankly whenever anyone says Cory Anderson. Coriander was bad enough. No one consults me or these problems wouldn't happen.
Okay anyway yesterday the farmer went to feed down below and there was a little goat waiting at the gate when the farmer came out and the farmer yelled, "Terra Belle! I have just about had it with you jumping over that fence and you better get back inside right now or you won't get any dinner."
Terra Belle, Hannah Belle's two year old daughter, has been jumping the fence that didn't get fixed and parading around the pasture looking for snacks.
The little goat ignored what the farmer said, not out of rudeness but because it wasn't Terra Belle. It was the new Baby Belle. It had gotten out of its pen somehow and come up to the gate. Charlie was running the fenceline and bawling. He was still locked in the pen.
Our farmer is weak-minded as you probably know and just went on about the feeding, pulling the tractor with the feed bucket and the hay bales into the pasture and shutting the gate and driving down to feed everybody and the new Baby Belle ran alongside a few steps and then did a very nice grand jete and landed in the tractor bucket about three feet up in the air and commenced eating the grain in the feed bucket, not minding that the tractor was heading downhill at a pretty good clip.
"You better get out of there Terra Belle, " the farmer yelled. "You have never done that before and I do not want you starting now!"
The farmer went blathering on down the hill still yelling at the new Baby Belle and wiggling the tractor bucket up and down to try to dislodge the intruder but the intruder held fast, head down in the bucket, surfing along unfazed by any of the farmer's threats and promises.
The farmer doesn't know it yet, but we are going to need a new horse trailer.
The one we have won't hold this girl.
Its name is going to be Coriander but everyone calls it Cory Anderson which doesn't make any sense. The baby is not smart enough to have a name like Cory Anderson. It needs a name like Spot. Right now I can see the baby looking around blankly whenever anyone says Cory Anderson. Coriander was bad enough. No one consults me or these problems wouldn't happen.
Okay anyway yesterday the farmer went to feed down below and there was a little goat waiting at the gate when the farmer came out and the farmer yelled, "Terra Belle! I have just about had it with you jumping over that fence and you better get back inside right now or you won't get any dinner."
Terra Belle, Hannah Belle's two year old daughter, has been jumping the fence that didn't get fixed and parading around the pasture looking for snacks.
The little goat ignored what the farmer said, not out of rudeness but because it wasn't Terra Belle. It was the new Baby Belle. It had gotten out of its pen somehow and come up to the gate. Charlie was running the fenceline and bawling. He was still locked in the pen.
Our farmer is weak-minded as you probably know and just went on about the feeding, pulling the tractor with the feed bucket and the hay bales into the pasture and shutting the gate and driving down to feed everybody and the new Baby Belle ran alongside a few steps and then did a very nice grand jete and landed in the tractor bucket about three feet up in the air and commenced eating the grain in the feed bucket, not minding that the tractor was heading downhill at a pretty good clip.
"You better get out of there Terra Belle, " the farmer yelled. "You have never done that before and I do not want you starting now!"
The farmer went blathering on down the hill still yelling at the new Baby Belle and wiggling the tractor bucket up and down to try to dislodge the intruder but the intruder held fast, head down in the bucket, surfing along unfazed by any of the farmer's threats and promises.
The farmer doesn't know it yet, but we are going to need a new horse trailer.
The one we have won't hold this girl.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Welcome Home, Baby Belle
Well it is very funny how things turn out sometimes.
Last year Hannah Belle had two kids, a buckling and a doeling. A nice family wanted them.
"What are you going to call them?" the farmer asked. The family said that they were going to call the boy Charlie. And they would call the little doeling Belle. The farmer did not say anything, just nodded. Charlie and Belle. We did not know it then, because how can you ever know anything until it happens, but they would be Hannah Belle's last surviving kids.
For one year Belle and Charlie lived nearby. And they were fat and happy. Charlie was a wether, and he lived the Life of Riley. Everywhere Belle went, Charlie went. Everywhere Charlie went, Belle went.
Then one day the family called the farmer and said that they were moving to Hawaii.
"Hawaii," said the farmer. The farmer hates hot weather. The farmer would rather move to the Moon than to Hawaii.
They wondered if Charlie and Belle could come back to live at the farm.
If you are ever wondering do we have any strict unbreakable policies, any edicts set in stone, the answer is yes, we have two strict rules. One: No wethers. Two: No returns.
I felt a little misty-eyed for the two darling tots, but what is the point of having strict rules if everything is always an exception. Anyway, somebody else would probably want them, they are extremely good-looking and personable like all my relatives, so que sera, sera. And so on.
But apparently it is true what they say: the exception proves the rule. And the proof of that is the two new residents at Herron Hill Dairy.
Welcome home, Charlie.
Welcome home, Belle.
Last year Hannah Belle had two kids, a buckling and a doeling. A nice family wanted them.
"What are you going to call them?" the farmer asked. The family said that they were going to call the boy Charlie. And they would call the little doeling Belle. The farmer did not say anything, just nodded. Charlie and Belle. We did not know it then, because how can you ever know anything until it happens, but they would be Hannah Belle's last surviving kids.
For one year Belle and Charlie lived nearby. And they were fat and happy. Charlie was a wether, and he lived the Life of Riley. Everywhere Belle went, Charlie went. Everywhere Charlie went, Belle went.
Then one day the family called the farmer and said that they were moving to Hawaii.
"Hawaii," said the farmer. The farmer hates hot weather. The farmer would rather move to the Moon than to Hawaii.
They wondered if Charlie and Belle could come back to live at the farm.
If you are ever wondering do we have any strict unbreakable policies, any edicts set in stone, the answer is yes, we have two strict rules. One: No wethers. Two: No returns.
I felt a little misty-eyed for the two darling tots, but what is the point of having strict rules if everything is always an exception. Anyway, somebody else would probably want them, they are extremely good-looking and personable like all my relatives, so que sera, sera. And so on.
But apparently it is true what they say: the exception proves the rule. And the proof of that is the two new residents at Herron Hill Dairy.
Welcome home, Charlie.
Welcome home, Belle.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Good Goatiquette
I would like to just say a few words about good manners because good manners are the foundation of any civilized society even a human society will not function correctly without good manners. For a goat society good manners are the only thing between us and complete chaos.
For example the Crackpot Oregonian was sharing a stall with Blue and she was bullying Blue mercilessly, as I already reported. Blue is the type to take things lying down. Or to get up and move. She is a peace-love-and-understanding goat. Not my style, but whatever.
Anyway Abby had trumped Blue and she would not accept victory gracefully. Instead she continued to bully Blue when Blue was already fully bullied. This is not good manners. She should watch how Wronny does it. Wronny has no problem with anybody who obeys her. She does not waste time and energy t-boning the obsequious.
But Abby was drunk with power and she kept on. She went to the limit. And then she went over the limit.
Blue has a long fuse. But it isn't an endless fuse. And yesterday when the farmer was at a goat show Jen was watching the farm and she called the farmer to report that she had had to separate Abby and Blue because Blue was thrashing Abby within an inch of her life.
Our farmer is weak-minded and gave a distracted response from ringside - "oh, I see, okay, that's too bad," - and made a mental note that Jen must have Blue and Abby mixed up even though Jen is not weak-minded like the farmer.
The farmer came home and discovered that in fact Blue had finally turned into the Incredible Hulk, and Abby had reaped the whirlwind, which could have been avoided if only she had had good manners. Well, what can you do, she was born in a barn.
Meanwhile, back at the goat show, a parade of beautiful Poppy Patch does took the Senior Nigerian show by storm, picking up one after another of the grands and reserves in the three different rings. The beautiful Mae West won one ring, Angel won another, Duchess won the third.
The farmer had come with the farmer from Minter Bay and four goats, all from the Cora Belle family, two daughters and two granddaughters. Wedding Belles was the only senior and she did very well, coming in second in two rings.
Then the junior show began and Cora Belle's daughter Hazelnut waltzed out into the first ring, where she was one of a very few junior kids who actually appeared to walk rather than sproing and scream and turn magically into an indignant living dust mop collecting shavings along the floor. She won the grand champion, and her niece - Cora Belle's granddaughter Coraline - was the reserve.
Now if a person didn't know any better or didn't have good manners, they would go ahead and put Hazelnut in the next ring to see if she could win again. But what would be the point of that, anyway, since only one junior win would count. So Hazelnut was scratched out of the other rings and a lovely dry yearling won the second ring. How nice.
Then came the third ring, and, what do you know, Coraline won the grand.
So that is how good manners works.
If you have bad manners, you only hurt yourself. Once you have won, it is best to leave the ring and sit smiling at ringside, filling the air with gracious humble dignity. Do not continue thrashing your opponent. Thank you.
Congratulations to Hazelnut. Congratulations to Coraline.
Congratulations to Blue.
For example the Crackpot Oregonian was sharing a stall with Blue and she was bullying Blue mercilessly, as I already reported. Blue is the type to take things lying down. Or to get up and move. She is a peace-love-and-understanding goat. Not my style, but whatever.
Anyway Abby had trumped Blue and she would not accept victory gracefully. Instead she continued to bully Blue when Blue was already fully bullied. This is not good manners. She should watch how Wronny does it. Wronny has no problem with anybody who obeys her. She does not waste time and energy t-boning the obsequious.
But Abby was drunk with power and she kept on. She went to the limit. And then she went over the limit.
Blue has a long fuse. But it isn't an endless fuse. And yesterday when the farmer was at a goat show Jen was watching the farm and she called the farmer to report that she had had to separate Abby and Blue because Blue was thrashing Abby within an inch of her life.
Our farmer is weak-minded and gave a distracted response from ringside - "oh, I see, okay, that's too bad," - and made a mental note that Jen must have Blue and Abby mixed up even though Jen is not weak-minded like the farmer.
The farmer came home and discovered that in fact Blue had finally turned into the Incredible Hulk, and Abby had reaped the whirlwind, which could have been avoided if only she had had good manners. Well, what can you do, she was born in a barn.
Meanwhile, back at the goat show, a parade of beautiful Poppy Patch does took the Senior Nigerian show by storm, picking up one after another of the grands and reserves in the three different rings. The beautiful Mae West won one ring, Angel won another, Duchess won the third.
The farmer had come with the farmer from Minter Bay and four goats, all from the Cora Belle family, two daughters and two granddaughters. Wedding Belles was the only senior and she did very well, coming in second in two rings.
Then the junior show began and Cora Belle's daughter Hazelnut waltzed out into the first ring, where she was one of a very few junior kids who actually appeared to walk rather than sproing and scream and turn magically into an indignant living dust mop collecting shavings along the floor. She won the grand champion, and her niece - Cora Belle's granddaughter Coraline - was the reserve.
Now if a person didn't know any better or didn't have good manners, they would go ahead and put Hazelnut in the next ring to see if she could win again. But what would be the point of that, anyway, since only one junior win would count. So Hazelnut was scratched out of the other rings and a lovely dry yearling won the second ring. How nice.
Then came the third ring, and, what do you know, Coraline won the grand.
So that is how good manners works.
If you have bad manners, you only hurt yourself. Once you have won, it is best to leave the ring and sit smiling at ringside, filling the air with gracious humble dignity. Do not continue thrashing your opponent. Thank you.
Congratulations to Hazelnut. Congratulations to Coraline.
Congratulations to Blue.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The Empire Strikes Back
Betty went ballistic and she has teetered back on top. If the rights can be sold to ESPN, the farmer is thinking of putting her in a stall with Abby for the day so that they can work it out once and for all. Wronny is in the back with the big milkers so the Crackpot Oregonian would not have her big hired goon to look out for her. (That is just an expression Wronny if you are reading this.)
Willen shed out the winter coat that was making him look like a woolly fat pony. Now he just looks like a fat pony. Or possibly a glossy palomino seal. All the horses have been mysteriously good, so the farmer is getting very suspicious.
Blue's two daughters were too pretty to keep and one has already gone to a new home. The public has been trying to buy Crumpet but so far the farmer has not cracked. Fritzi and Frodo, the brothers with another mother, are living a happy, carefree life now that they traded in their old earbiting dam (Winjay the Hun) for a kindly new cookie-baking dam (Saint Penrose.)
My mother and my daughter and I have been passing the days sunning ourselves. The paint continues to peel. The cabana continues to fall apart. Jinxy continues to get cuter. Moldy, the last of the Nigerians to kid, continues to grow bigger.
And the grass continues to grow.
Long Live the Grass, without the Grass there would be no Grass Babies.
Willen shed out the winter coat that was making him look like a woolly fat pony. Now he just looks like a fat pony. Or possibly a glossy palomino seal. All the horses have been mysteriously good, so the farmer is getting very suspicious.
Blue's two daughters were too pretty to keep and one has already gone to a new home. The public has been trying to buy Crumpet but so far the farmer has not cracked. Fritzi and Frodo, the brothers with another mother, are living a happy, carefree life now that they traded in their old earbiting dam (Winjay the Hun) for a kindly new cookie-baking dam (Saint Penrose.)
My mother and my daughter and I have been passing the days sunning ourselves. The paint continues to peel. The cabana continues to fall apart. Jinxy continues to get cuter. Moldy, the last of the Nigerians to kid, continues to grow bigger.
And the grass continues to grow.
Long Live the Grass, without the Grass there would be no Grass Babies.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Psych Ward
I forgot to mention Wendell came from a puppy mill and he thinks his stuffed moose is his mother and when his screws come loose he tightens them up by suckling for hours on his Moosey Mother. It isn't even a stuffed dog. It is a stuffed moose.
The sad part is he thinks it's normal. He thinks everything he does is normal. Sad.That's what happens when you are raised by stuffed animals.
Anyway back to more important topics, we are trying to encourage Betty to hold onto her throne because we have all taken a vow NEVER to be ruled by crackpot Oregonians. We are THE BABY BELLE FAMILY.
Unfortunately all we can do from down below is watch, and Blue has already kowtowed to Typhoon Abby. It is up to Betty now to hold her ground.
PUT YOUR HEAD DOWN, BETTY!
THEY WILL NEVER TAKE OUR FREEDOM!
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
Our Little Comet
We had a very sad day yesterday. We lost Jammies' little daughter Buckles. She was only here a short while, but she had a big spirit. She blazed through the world. Goodbye Buckles.
Monday, June 04, 2012
Cate Moss
It was decided the first one would be called Pink Champagne. She came out and was photographed and then was put away. Then her little sister came out. Her little sister is long and elegant with legs like a thoroughbred filly and a beautiful photogenic face and thin as a rail and it was decided her name would be Cate Moss. Cate with a C, because it is a C year.
"Why don't you give her a bottle?" said the photographer, who had come over from Minter Bay.
"Oh she does not take a bottle. She is not a bottle baby," the farmer pronounced.
"She looks like she wants a bottle," said the farmer from Minter Bay.
"She is not a bottle baby," our farmer repeated, slightly more loudly.
"But she looks like she wants a bottle. "
Since this appeared to be a stalemate the farmer went and got a bottle to demonstrate that Cate Moss is not a bottle baby. Cate Moss drained the bottle in 15 seconds without taking a single breath.
"Wow," said the farmer."There, you see," said the farmer from Minter Bay with some satisfaction.
"She is not a bottle baby, though," the farmer repeated dully, refilling the bottle with milk.
Since then Cate Moss has had six bottles, and she stands at the gate waiting for the farmer every morning.
In spite of the fact that she is not a bottle baby.
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