The Crumpet Project

NEWS: There is an update to the Crumpet Project. Click here for more details.

Obedience and the Debt Ceiling

Well it finally happened. Crumpet came into heat. She went and stood by the fence outside Chaos' pen, and she talked to him about the debt ceiling. She told him how worried she was about the debt ceiling, on account of it being so near to the fiscal cliff, and even though goats are pretty good at walking up and down cliffs, she didn't know if she could walk on the ceiling. It would depend what kind of ceiling it was.

"Isn't it a debt ceiling?" blubbered Chaos.

"Isn't what a debt ceiling?" asked Crumpet, and then the whole conversation started again, and this went on three or four times in completely circular fashion and then finally the farmer hove into sight with the Terror a few inches behind and off went Crumpet, up to the big barn for incarceration purposes, and the last thing I heard was something about the Federal Reserve and the full faith and credit of the farm and the distant sound of the Terror yapping idiotically, and then there was just the blap of a door slamming shut and after that nothing but the sound of Chaos, standing by the fence, saying over and over into thin air: "isn't it a debt ceiling?"

Feeder Pest

The Terror is failing puppy obedience, it is only to be expected from such a wayward dog. There is supposed to be an exam this week but we already know what score she will get:

Heeling: F
Leaving Dropped Treats Alone on the Floor: F-
Down: F
Come When Called (Or Ever, for that matter): F
Sit: C

It is just not the kind of test she is going to be good at. The kind of test she would be good at would be:

Run Around Insanely Knocking Other Puppies Over: A
Pee on the Floor at the Most Inopportune Time (Carpets only, Linoleum Doesn't Count): A
Eat the Farmer's Glasses: A+
Sit in the Hay Feeder When We Are Trying to Eat, Biting our Noses When we put our Heads in: A

*

The blog has gotten very boring lately with a lot of drivel about goat shows. There has hardly been anything about Crumpet, who is still the most famous goat in the world even if nobody has ever heard of her. Crumpet has moved into the down-below goat shack, the one with the leaky roof, oh wait they all have leaky roofs, anyway the one where everyone who didn't go to the Fair lives. This includes Moldy, Blue, Jammies, Jinxy, Dinky Dollarbird, Blue Jaye, that one that nobody can remember her name if she even has one, and the other one that cries for no reason, just as a hobby.

The coyotes ate all the pears and so they have stopped creeping around our pasture at night which has stopped the farmer from hollering and shining the big spotlight and shooting off the .22 that no one can get aimed - "has this gun been sighted in?" everyone asks after they shoot it and miss by a mile, how surprising, usually they are like Daniel Boone and could shoot the hat off an acorn, must be something wrong with the rifle. Anyway it is a lot easier to sleep without gunfire or coyotes.

It is turning into fall very quickly and last week for a while it seemed like it might be January with the wind blowing a gale and great flapping sheets of rain. The farmer took Crumpet up to the barn for a ceremonial measuring and Crumpet had not grown at all. If you have any suggestions for making Crumpet grow, send them in. Licorice did not work. If she stays this shrunken she is going to go to puppy agility with the Terror, since carrying the candy pack is not a full-time job.

Eo has a new plan to take over the world but she won't tell anyone what it is. Be on the lookout though. She is not one to tangle with. Moony is now the size of a Shetland Pony and still drinking milk. The new buckling came and he is staying in the barn for a few days to meet his roommates and he smells like a bag of rotten fish that has been marinated in a barrel of cat pee and then left out in the hot sun for a few days. For this reason I went back down to the down-below pasture and my mother went with me. And Belle Starr too.

If we could get on Yelp we would do a barn review: one star, barn is nice but service is very slow and surly, and right now it smells like sardine-flavored cat pee. Proprietor does not seem to care. AVOID.

Enter the Dragon

The farmer went out of town and it poured. There was a lightning storm and the power went out. The tractor stopped running and the Terror had a potty training relapse, the worst kind of relapse there is. Laddy got stuck in the neighbor's chicken coop, he walked in there to steal some alfalfa that belongs to their goats and when he got in it was too narrow to turn around - it was one horse long but only about a half a horse wide, and when he tried to back out he kept banging his big butt against the wall so he stood there stamping and crying like a Nubian horse and he had to be extracted manually and just in the nick of time because it was plain to see that he had started thinking Kung Fu thoughts - "I could kick this whole place down," -  if thinking isn't too strong a word for the type of cerebral activity he is known for.

Anyway it was a long week and no one really enjoyed it except the farmer because the farmer was in Virginia where it was bright and sunny all day long every day, with the temperature around 80, and no chores to do except eat cake and lasagna. "I think I will have a little more," the farmer kept saying. The farmer came home fatter than ever, looking like a dry yearling who lives at a feedstore where the grain is free choice and the alfalfa buffet never closes.

It was decided the farmer would go on a spinach diet since the unharvested spinach was running amok in the garden after all that rain.

But just then the mail arrived and lo and behold! Two more big bags of black licorice! On the label the licorice was clearly addressed to me, it said "Millie Beautifulgoat," but the bags did not get delivered to me, instead they were shared among the masses, which is not legal when a bag is addressed to a specific goat. In fact I believe that kind of mail-tampering is a felony but no one listened to me, what a surprise.

The feast was back on, even Kung Fu Laddy got some. Sandy, the farmer's new pet, the goat formerly known as the Screamer, feasted three times a day on my licorice as she was milked on the stand to get her production up for the Fair.

"Why can't some of you be more like Sandy," the farmer said pointedly, looking at Clover and Clara Belle, not to mention Betty. Their production has gone to hell in a handbasket since the farmer went out of town. "You are going to look pretty ridiculous at the Fair with your little thimbles of milk."

Sandy simpered infuriatingly from the milkstand, she is just like her grandmother Moldy. She is as bad as Crumpet only worse. She puts Pebbles to shame. She gobbled five pieces of licorice in a row.

"I could kick this whole place down," said Eo bitterly, watching the black whips disappear.

Even Zinnia

Zinnia took a thrashing in the licorice contest and so we won the bet but we had no idea who we were betting against because if we did we would have bet a backhoe or a flatbed trailer with brakes that work or a new roof for the cottage because usually if the loser ever pays off a bet like that a few weeks go by and then a pocket-size bag of stale Twizzlers arrives and Wronny and Jessie hog them all and no one else even really cares, we look at each other shrugging, who cares those are stale anyway.


But that is not what happened. Almost the next day a huge box arrived on the FedEx truck and the farmer was pleased and said, "oh that is the new disposal," and carried the box up to the house, commenting absently to The Terror that "I thought it would be heavier." The box did not even get opened right away, that is how disposal-like it seemed, but when it did get opened it revealed what seemed like a hundred bags of top quality liquorice (with a Q.) It was an awe-inspiring sight, like a visit from the Dalai Lama or a truckload of third cutting alfalfa backing up to the barn.

We were all giddy with delight since it was decreed that the licorice would be shared amongst all the masses. "Even Zinnia," said Wronny. "Even Zinnia," we intoned reverently. And thus it was carried out but I think some of the bags disappeared into the farmhouse.

It is now the time for self-congratulation because if you don't congratulate yourself who will, so we extend our heartiest kudos to ourselves for being who we are, and we also congratulate Cora Belle the Horrible, who made it onto the Top Ten list, Pinky's daughter Tea who won the Skagit County 4H Fair, Chella's daughter Calico who made it to the state fair, Sammy the Terror who learned how to sleep through the night without peeing, Sandy the Screamer who has quietened down and become a real milker - head down in the feed dish with no questions asked, Spenny the angel-saint-dog who has never offered to even snap at the Terror. And we also pre-congratulate ourselves on the upcoming State Fair where even if we win nothing we will have a really good time. We are who we are.

God Bless Us Every One. Even Zinnia.

And They're Off

Well the Super Bowl smackdown finally came on the schedule and Zinnia the Ninnia aka the Beady-Eyed Sourpuss was turned out in the milker pasture with Wronny. She went out there with her two kids, A.J. and Edie, who are inexplicably sweet and adorable although I guess it is not that inexplicable since Chaos is their father.

Okay, first of all, confidence: what is it? Is it stealing lunches from little kids? Is it t-boning the slow-witted? Is it sneaking up behind an intelligent, kindly, extremely correct (except for the chandelier udder) Nigerian and biting its ear while it is trying to take a nap? That's right, Zinnia, I am talking to you. The answer to all these questions, especially the last one, is no.

Confidence comes from deep within the rumen of the true herdqueen. Confidence is its own reward. Confidence is like a little bird that flies NORTH for the winter. WHY NOT TRY SOMETHING NEW? Confidence babbles happily like an Alpine brook; it knows its way down the mountain. Confidence is the peace that passes understanding, like a bucket of warm Cherry trance-milk. Ommmm. Confidence lies sleeping in the sun, because there is no need to get up.

Getting up is exactly what Wronny did not do when Zinnia swaggered into the milker pasture radiating what she thought was confidence. Oh Wronny saw her, but really, some things really do not merit one's personal attention. Wronny flicked an eye over at two of her underling lieutenants, Elbie and Schwinnie, and they took off like a shot - yes, My Queen! - in Zinnia's direction.

Zinnia quivered out one last swagger and then realized too late that her confidence was really arrogance. Her brain shut down in a flood of panic. She wheeled and ran. And ran.

And ran, with the portly Hounds of Hell warm - Hot burns too many calories - on her heels.

Wronny yawned and went back to sleep. Ommm.

Losers please send licorice (black.)

c/o Millie
Herron Hill Dairy
Home Wa 98349.

Thanks.

The Staring Circle

It has been a beautiful August here, no rain except a few sprinkles and not too hot, only in the 80s or so and sometimes in the 70s. The farmer got out the clippers and has systematically been shaving the fair candidates to see what is in there under all that hair. Blue Jaye was shaved and she looked beautiful but she isn't making much milk. Clara Belle also looked beautiful. Clover did too.

Marti was shaved and sometimes she looks pretty good, sometimes she has the topline of a brontosaurus. She just keeps rising like a loaf of bread dough and she can't always be punched down. One day the rear is too high, the next day the front, the third day she looks good.

Sandy was shaved and she looked surprisingly good except for her head, which looks like a miniature donkey's head, with a wattle on each side only one wattle is under her ear where it is supposed to be and the other kind of dangles lopsidedly along her neck which isn't a good look. Also they aren't the same size, one is a grape and one is more of a ping pong ball. When everyone saw what Sandy looked like under her hair we cleared a small circle around her for staring and now she travels around with her own little buffer zone, the staring circle, which no one ventures into.

"Oh dear," said Abby, when she saw her daughter Sandy in her hairless glory. Pebbles did not get shaved because she did not settle so she won't be going to the fair. Pebbles is the pretty twin. Sandy is the unsung twin, and there was quite a chorus of unsinging when she came out of the cutting salon in the barn.

"Is she adopted?" asked Crumpet. Crumpet is one of Sandy's little sisters.

Derringer, one of Clover's daughters, also got a haircut. "Hmm," said the farmer, when Derringer came prancing out.

This does not bode well for Derringer. Usually when the farmer says "Hmm," the farmer then says,  "I don't expect her to come in last." And sure enough, a few minutes later the farmer remarked to The Terror as Derringer went pronging back to the Pear Tree Pasture, "I don't expect her to come in last."

The Terror was busy eating hoof clippings and didn't say anything.

For Derringer, sadly, this probably means a lifetime of goat shows, unless she has the good sense to grow her udder out in the shape of a chandelier, which is what I did, and I have never been anywhere near a ferris wheel and I wouldn't know an elephant's ear from a corn dog.

Anyway the farmer allowed that we might get a couple of ribbons at the fair.

"Especially since we have a secret weapon this year," the farmer explained to The Terror.

The Terror was asleep by now, and didn't say, "Secret Weapon? What Secret Weapon?"

We Are The World

A funny thing happened and that was we almost forgot about Moldy coming from Oregon. In fact the other day Crumpet scoffed when someone told her Moldy was from Oregon. Moldy is Crumpet's grandmother.

"Moldy was here the day I was born. She has been here her whole life."

I guess Crumpet thinks the world sprang into existence on the day she arrived. The whole planet was made specially for her, even the alfalfa and the leaves on the trees, and before she was born it was just all stuffed into a closet somewhere or the trunk of someone's car, no need for it. But when she was born Snap, same day delivery, get The World out of the trunk, Crumpet is here. And don't forget Moldy.

Which just goes to show how delusional she is when we all know that the world would have started when Baby Belle was born years ago, back when there was no Oregon, only Walla Walla and the Key Peninsula. 

That is what Izzy was explaining to Crayola when she got t-boned into the side of Winnie's shed by one of the LaMancha yearlings, one of the fat ill-mannered ones, oh wait they are all fat and ill-mannered. Anyway the LaManchas insisted that the world started in Port Orchard, just north of here, because that's where Brandy was born.

I guess there is some truth to that, so we will include that in our history book if we ever write it, that when the world started there was only Walla Walla, the Key Peninsula, and Port Orchard. That seemed settled until little Marti, the great-granddaughter of our old scatterbrained Stacy said "what about the Nubians?"

Because it's true, the Nubians were here, scatterbrained Stacy and beautiful kind Marti, when the world began, so we really ought best to include them in the history book, at least in the foreword if there isn't room for them in any of the more interesting chapters, so that is what we will do.

"But where did the Nubians come from?' asked Crumpet, and this was a puzzler that stumped even the Nubian crosses themselves and there was a long silence until someone said, "Mars I think."

That sounded right so we took a note of it. 

Walla Walla, The Key Peninsula, Port Orchard, Mars. Thus it is written.

The Main Event

Clover was able to t-bone the Terror as it was doing some fancy scurrying around the apple tree. It scurried right into her, looking behind at Clara Belle and practically t-boning itself, although Clover took the credit. Of course the Terror gave a yelp and the farmer came running to pick it up. So that is good, we scored one point, our first. It did not go to the grain bin afterward, which is odd. I hope this doesn't mean there is a new policy banning grain gorging as the treatment of choice for those with hurt feelings.

Crumpet has flopped out as a show goat and as a milk goat and her piano playing lacks artistry to say the least, so the farmer is going to make her the new ambassador goat and she will have to go around to Harvest Tours and things like that wearing a little backpack stuffed with tootsie rolls which Filbert used to do as the official Candy Goat before he got well and truly sick of it. Sad news for Crumpet. Oh well, somebody has to do it.

Zinnia whose name is really Zenyatta had the two surprise kids, Chaos kids, and she is very pleased because now she has a private stall in the barn and she gets special food. She is one of the Brandy style parents, always hovering and taking umbrage at real and imagined threats to her darling drab tots. She tried to t-bone the Terror but the Clover incident had already taught it to use its side mirrors and it dodged spryly out of the way, laughing.

The two new babies have their father's personality, which is nice for everyone since Zinnia is a beady-eyed sourpuss who thinks she owns the whole peninsula.

The appearance of the Zinnia twins means that there is an epic smackdown on the horizon: in a couple of weeks Zinnia will go out with the milkers and she and Wronny will come head to head and I don't know who will win but I do know I want a ringside seat. It will be a real Category 5 Goatnado.

Just my opinion, but it will be a cold day in Honolulu when the Sourpuss takes the Soprano.

Two Tiny Boats Against the Current

The Terror inspects Eau-de-vie, Brandy's great-great-granddaughter, and appears to find her satisfactory. We have learned that the Terror is supposed to be called "Sammy."

Sammy and Edie.

The Water of Life

Plan B we decided was to wait and see as far as the Boston Terror goes. We can wait. Just try to wait us out some time and see who wins. We can wait.

Because time will tell. Time always tells.

Time told us that Pebbles wasn't going to kid because she was due a week ago and she hadn't done anything and since she was the last one on the kidding chart the farmer rolled up all the baby towels and took them inside until next year.

And time told us that Brandy would not be with us much longer which we knew anyway since she was several hundred years old but still one of the farmer's favorites, who knows why. Yesterday she was just so tired so she had a lot of special treats and several apples, which she loves, sliced thin and fed by hand and her spirits were good and she wasn't in pain but she wouldn't get up.

"Will you get up, Brandy?" the farmer asked. But she wouldn't get up.

Today was the day.  In the morning she ate a few apple slices, and had a shot of vitamins and a shot of banamine in case she was in pain. The farmer sat with her and petted her along the neck, which she usually doesn't allow.  Brandy drank a quart of warm water with electrolytes, which made the farmer think she would rally.

"She is a tough old bird," the farmer said to the Boston Terror. The Boston Terror goes everywhere with the farmer.

The farmer got up to go do some more chores and Brandy woke with a start and called after the farmer and the farmer turned around and looked back at Brandy for a long minute. One of those looks between two old friends where only they know what it means.

Then the farmer turned away and went up to look for the paint rollers. And when the farmer came back she was gone.

That ought to be the end of the story. But it isn't. It never is.

The farmer went and started digging a grave for Brandy and the ground was so hard and dry - we have hardly had a drop of rain since June - that the farmer soon had to stop.  The farmer dragged the hose over and ran some water into the ground to try to soften it and then started digging again and then hit a shelf of hard clay and had to stop again and this went on for a while and then in spite of always hating to cause people any trouble the farmer left a message for the kindly neighbors with the backhoe and before long they arrived and lickety split they had the nicest grave dug and that may sound like cold comfort but there is something to be said for a really nice grave, especially for a herdqueen like Brandy.

Well just as Brandy was being laid to rest with an apple and a handful of dandelions there was a distant peeping cry from across the other side of the pasture. The farmer ignored the cry, and thanked the neighbors profusely because after all what is nicer than someone helping you dig a grave on a moment's notice. Nothing, really.

The neighbors left and the farmer fed the Terror and the girls behind the barn and then there was the peeping again so the farmer did a head count and came up one short and so the farmer pushed open the gate and hustled toward the cabana looking for Pebbles but the cabana was empty and Pebbles was lying indolently in the shade at the top of the hill, still fat but still not pregnant. On the way back out the farmer passed Winnie's little shed and happened to look inside and there was Zinnia, wearing a guilty expression, along with a pair of newborn twins, a boy and a girl, still wet.

"How did you get here?" the farmer asked, nonplussed. They didn't answer.

Their names are going to be Applejack and Eau-de-vie. Those are two kinds of brandy. And if you ever had seventh grade French you know that eau-de-vie means "water of life." The water that always keeps flowing.

When we look at them we will think of Brandy. And the backhoe. And the kindly neighbors. And the water of life. And the way time always tells.

7 Cedars Yogi's Brandy 4/18/2000 - 8/3/2013
Herron Hill CB Eau-de-Vie 8/3/2013 - .............

Plan A

It was decided by the power that be (Eo) that Crumpet would approach the Boston Terror and explain to it our rules for dog behavior and the consequences that might result from any rule-breakings.

"Why me?" asked Crumpet.

"Why not?" said Eo, and this proved to be a stumper. Crumpet went up toward the barn to explain the rules.

1. No chasing.
2. No barking.
3. No unsolicited opinions or offers of fake "assistance." This includes "helping" anyone to finish their dinner.

We watched with interest as Crumpet sallied forth, radiating confidence and bureaucracy despite her hamsterly size. She had gotten almost to the barn when the Terror came bounding toward her in an unnervingly friendly manner, barking gaily. Nonetheless we expected Crumpet to deliver our ultimatums and bylaws in a professional fashion but instead she turned tail and ran in abject terror, with a 4-inch tall Boston Terror nipping delightedly at her pasterns.

"The Most Famous Goat in the World," Jammies mentioned mournfully as Crumpet pronged toward the cabana.

"All right," said Eo, "let's go to Plan B."

The Boston Terror and The Idiots

There was a hushed discussion with no one able to agree.

"This boston terror is very little. Only about 4 inches tall,"  said the down-below Nubian crosses, led by Cherry. "We think it will not be a problem."

"Idiots," said Eo.

"Four inches is a lot," said Crumpet. "Two inches would be better."

"Can we shrink it?" asked Jammies. "Is there a way to shrink it?"

"I have heard that things can be shrunk through selective breeding," Betty chimed in.

"Let's breed it to Chaos," suggested Belle Starr. "I have noticed he is not very particular."

"That is not what selective means," Betty opined.

"Idiots," snapped Eo.

"It's fine right now where the farmer mostly carries it around," mused Elbie, "but what is going to happen when the farmer puts it down?"

"On the ground, you mean?" asked Pinky and Moony together.

"Idiots," said Eo.

The Royal Baby

Eo was the first to see it because she is always on the lookout for bad news. When she saw it she did a little gymnastics maneuver, swinging her butt around so that she could face it directly head on without looking any bigger than necessary and positioned to flee for the hills at the earliest possible moment.

"What is it Eo?" asked Moony, lumbering over looking like a tiny moon-spotted whale encased in blubber since she is a long yearling and her mother still lets her nurse even though she has to practically lie on the ground to reach the udder since she is so tall not to mention wide.

Eo said nothing just stared up toward the farmhouse with gimlet eyes where it was just barely visible, just the top of its head peeking up above the grass.

"It couldn't be," gasped Belle Pepper, swinging her tail around behind her. Blue came up and swung her tail. I swung my tail. Champagne swung her tail. Cherry swung her tail. Belle Starr swung her tail. Jammies swung her tail. Jinxy swung her tail. Pinky swung her tail. We all stood there staring.

"It couldn't be," said Belle Pepper again.

"What is it Eo?" asked Moony again.

"It's bad news," snapped Eo.

"What is it?" Moony asked everyone at large.

"It's another one," said Belle Pepper, somberly.

"Another what?" asked Moony.

Betty finally said it out loud. "Another boston terror."

The End of the Line

There was a show. There was too much to do the farmer did not want to go to the show. Blue Jaye looked beautiful, she had spent two weeks learning how to go around in a circle without pancaking or swordfish walking, then all of a sudden she got lopsided and her production dropped like a stone and the farmer said forget it, just forget it, I am not taking Sandy the screamer and Morchella is too fresh and Clara Belle really has milked off a little too much weight and Crayola is still limping from hurting her foot and it would take four hours to clip Marti and Clover won't bag up so forget it just forget it let's just forget about it what is the point anyway it is a little ridiculous walking around in a circle with a goat on a hot day when the fence is falling down and the gates have yet to be hung and it costs a lot of gas money to get to the show not to mention the entry fees so let's just forget it.

Then the farmer looked out into the pasture where Crumpet was browsing away pretending to be a horse and even though Crumpet was extremely tiny she had grown two inches in the last two months and she was almost the size of a regular six-month old Nigerian, which would be good if she weren't a yearling, and the farmer looked at Crumpet and in spite of her extreme tininess Crumpet was perfect in every way and Crumpet knew it very well.

"I could just take Crumpet," the farmer muttered, perhaps having suffered a mild stroke or some other brain malady of unknown origin. "I could just put Crumpet in a crate and just take Crumpet."

"But Crumpet is too small to show," said the vestigial smidgen of the farmer's brain that was still functioning correctly. "And what about those gates? When are they going to be hung?"

The farmer from Minter Bay had also apparently suffered a mild stroke and agreed - reluctantly - to go as well. Into the truck and off they went at zero dark thirty, so early that most of the scintillating conversation en route was about the pleasantness of the traffic. "Look, there is hardly any traffic," one of the farmers would say.

"Isn't this nice," the other would say.

"What about that parade in Seattle?" one would say.

"I hope we don't get caught in that traffic," the other would say.

"Look," the first would exclaim, "there is hardly any traffic."

The people in Seattle may ride their bicycles naked but they are not so crazy that they get up at 4:30 and drive two hours to a goat show.

At the fairgrounds all the Nigerians were screaming in protest. But not Crumpet. She sat in her crate chewing her cud shrewdly and surveying the motley crew of reluctant pageant participants and you could see her thinking aloud, "these fat girls are no match for me."

The day dragged on interminably with the usual goat show delays. As usual the Minter Bay goats did very well, both of them making it to the championship lineup. By the time Crumpet went into the ring it was mid-afternoon. There were a bunch of other dry yearlings, probably twelve or thirteen, and several - if not most - of them were quite fat. Some were beautiful and fat, some were just fat. One was already at the height limit. She was a good six inches taller than Crumpet.

This is not one of those stories where Crumpet triumphs over the fat yearlings. The first judge started arranging the lineup. He glanced briefly at Crumpet and put her near the end of the line. Another judge did not even look at her, not a single glance, before putting her right at the end of the line. The third judge took his time and patiently looked each goat over thoroughly. He put Crumpet at the end of the line.

But as he went down the line giving his reasons, he stopped when he got to the end.

"This little doe at the end of the line is extremely correct," he said. "in fact there is nothing wrong with her. She is perfect. She is just too small to be competitive."

"That's right," thought Crumpet, surveying the fat losers ahead of her in line with pity and compassion as one should when regarding those less fortunate. "Perfect in every way."

This gentleman has a firm grasp of the obvious, thought the farmer. Unlike me.

Mr. Jingles on Guard

Nothing escapes the notice of a sentry of this caliber...

The Best Bad Dog in the World

There is a big silence all around the farm.

It is hard to believe, like so many terrible true things. But Wendell, aka Mr. Jingles, died on Thursday. In spite of being a monumental pest he was one of the farmer's very best friends, always in staunch agreement with the farmer's opinions and dying to hear more of them. Had there ever been such fascinating opinions, so eloquently expressed, so novel, so enlightening, so right in so many ways? Had there ever been such a magnificent farmer, driver of such a magnificent farm truck, the magic carpet ride to hayfields and feed stores and drive-through windows where the little dog sandwiches come out in crinkly paper for the shotgun rider? That Crinkly Paper! Had there ever been a better life than he had, king of his domain, fearless cow herder, matchless baby goat nanny, incorrigible thief, the best bad dog in the world?

The Betty Way

Betty is the Nigerian herdqueen now. She does things The Betty Way.

The Betty Way is right on time, no funny business, no whining or complaining.

Betty got ready to kid on Sunday. She waited down in the pasture until it was time, then she signaled to the farmer. The farmer came down and opened the gate and she marched up to the barn.

She went into the kidding stall. She looked at it skeptically. It was ok, but it could have been better. The hay feeder was only half full of alfalfa, and the straw was clean and fresh but only a couple of inches deep. What could she do, she had to work with what she had.

She rearranged the straw, making a little mattress off to one side. She did a couple of circles, mapping out her kidding route. Ok.

The farmer went on feeding and Lori sat in the stall reading a book. Betty did a few trips around the stall, then laid down to push. Out popped the first triplet, without a peep from Betty.

"The first one is out," said Lori.

What is she doing here, thought Betty.

Betty examined the first kid closely. Fine, perfect in every way. Out popped the second triplet, unfortunately Betty had to give one short sharp bark to help push this one out. You could see that Betty didn't like doing that, but what can you do, sometimes it happens. Betty examined the second one while the first one drank some milk. Fine, perfect in every way. Out popped the third triplet. Exquisite.

Betty called for some dinner and a quart of mixed berry Emergen-C in a bucket. The whole family went to sleep, serene and adorable, never a peep from any of them.

The next day Tangy set in to kidding. The farmer dropped everything. First Tangy tried to kid standing up - this is a family trait. Then she tried to kid with her knees down on the ground and her butt up in the air. Alexander Newton I'm sure must have been spinning in his grave, but try explaining gravity to Tangy when she doesn't even know how to open the latch on a stall door. Dios mio. The bellowing I'm sure you could have heard in Gig Harbor, which is 15 miles away.

After a long time she managed to get a nice straightforward set of nose and toes lined up but the kid would not come out for all the world. This went on for half an hour and the farmer even gave her some calcium and some medicine to help dilate. Finally out popped a perfectly normal kid, streamlined like a mahogany cigarette boat from the '50s, what was the problem, the farmer asked? Why couldn't she just push him out? Why all the drama?

Tangy gave a little burp and yawned and popped out another kid. Well, the second one always comes out nicely. Ok, good job, said the farmer and went to do some chores. Three hours later, from down in the front pasture, the farmer heard the unmistakable bellowing of Tangy laboring mightily and the farmer trotted wheezing up to the barn to find a sopping wet third kid splayed out in the straw, who even knew how long Tangy had been working at that one.

"Well," said the farmer. Because what else can you say. "next time try doing it The Betty Way."

They Might be Tiny Giants

Clara Belle the farmer's pet yearling kept getting bigger and  bigger. She was supposed to kid but she held off. The barometer dropped and there was a downpour but she held off, getting bigger and bigger. Crumpet meanwhile spent every day spying through her peephole and when the new babies would be let out to play she would squirt through the fence and gallop to the barn and t-bone each and every one of them in rapid succession, Muhammad Ali style, float like a butterfly sting like a bee.

The farmer was losing patience.

Crumpet did her t-boning practice for 3 days with complete success, dominating all the week-old babies. Once she had fully dominated she would give three little sideways hops signifying her badness. That's right -- hop, hop, hop -- I'm bad. The farmer caught her and stuffed her back through the fence a few times when she got too full of herself but in general she ran rampant.

On the fourth day she decided to go Big. She surveyed the pasture and picked out Moony, who may be big - she is the biggest yearling here, and possibly in the world, since she still drinks a gallon of Pinky milk every day - but she is also slow, uncoordinated, and not an intellectual giant.

Crumpet did her first big league t-boning when Pinky and Moony both got their heads stuck in the fence. They had put their heads through the same hole at the same time and couldn't get out. They didn't notice it at first, they thought they were just waiting for everyone to get off the bus and then they could go where they wanted to go, but when everyone else left and they still couldn't move and the farmer said, "well, you figured out a way to get your heads in there, I think you can figure out a way to get out," they started moaning softly, like they were in a sad church or something.

It was very spiritual.

Crumpet got a gleam in her eye and she started t-boning Moony to such an extent that even though it was a fly attacking an elephant, the farmer had to come down and get Moony and Pinky out of the fence and the farmer attempted at that time to catch Crumpet because Crumpet had been promised a long-overdue thrashing but Crumpet dodged away.

Tiny Tyrant 1, Moony 0.

"All right," said the farmer to Clara Belle, "you go ahead and have your kids whenever you want just do not have them in the middle of the night. It is not allowed."

Later that day, at midnight actually, Clara Belle laid down and started screaming.

The farmer came trotting with the kidding towels.

"Ok," said the farmer, rubbing the first one, a big starry-eyed buckling.

"Why it's called Midnight," the farmer explained to Clara Belle as she pushed out another buckling, also big and starry-eyed, "is that it comes in the middle of the night."

Clara gulped down a quart of grape-flavored Emergen-C in a bucket.

"And that isn't allowed, as I explained earlier."

The bucklings looked exactly like their father, Lucky the Drive-Through Buck, right down to the last detail, swanky and blue-eyed with lush black-and-white coats, like they were on their way to hear Frank Sinatra crooning somewhere. They were tiny, but they were giants.

Crumpet surveyed them with satisfaction through her spyhole. Two more worthy opponents.

They might be giants, thought Crumpet, but they are no match for me.

The Book of Names

We have a goat named Pinky. And we have a goat named Pinky Jr. And just to show the breadth of imagination at work here, we also have a goat named Binky. None of these names are their real names. They all have real names on their papers but nobody knows what they are any more. Once the farmer was at a show and the announcer came on the loudspeaker in the barn and announced the reserve champion, Moonshine Yarrow, and the farmer wondered who that was, because the farmer thought that one of our goats had been the reserve champion and we even had the ribbon to prove it, but oh dear maybe someone was on the way to confiscate the rosette. And then someone passing by said congratulations and the farmer realized that Moonshine Yarrow was actually Tangy.

"Oh, that's right."

But anyway we have a Pinky and a Pinky Jr. and a Binky. Blue Jaye's two little daughters are getting bird names since she has a bird name and one is called Diamond Dove and the other is called Dollarbird. Dollarbird is a wisecracker, it's plain to see already, she is always chewing on a little piece of straw in the corner of her mouth and everyone calls her Dinky Dollarbird, which sounds like an outlaw name, which she definitely is, and she is also very small, she is this year's Crumpet, which last year's Crumpet doesn't like at all. Dinky Dollarbird could easily be a cartoon character, she has blue eyes and wattles growing right under her ears.

But of course after you say Dinky Dollarbird five times you start to feel a little less syllabic and pretty soon it's just Dinky, which someone suggested as a name in the D contest.

Clover's little daughters are Derringer (she is a pistol) and the other one might be Polka Dot, she is all black with a white dot on her head and another on the tip of her tail. She is extremely sweet, not a pistol at all.

Sandy's little son is just called Sandy's little son, he has four caramel-colored boots and big Hello-Kitty Oregonian eyes. Jessie's little son would also be called Sandy's little son, but that name is taken. So he is called Jessie's little son, even though he is exceedingly fat.

Maybe later on one of them could get an official name, something like Finky. Or Ginky. Or possibly Rinky or Kinky. Minky would also work. Or Tinky. We might save Sinky for later, and Winky is too good to use right away. Pinky the Third has not been used as far as I know.

The ideas just keep coming. It's amazing.