Don't Ask

The farmer is very curious I guess because the farmer often asks the question, "what next?"

Especially the last couple of weeks the farmer was even asking Scouty the Nubian like she would know, "what next?"

It all started in September. First the farmer brought the young swollen-headed prom princesses home from the fair with their ribbons. All three of them got the sniffles, from being around lots of strange goats in a day care type setting. These sniffles immediately spread to the rest of the herd so that all the crazy ladies who were coming into heat had to wait to be bred.

So the crazy ladies stood around bawling their heads off, which made for quite a symphony of outrage with the LaManchas singing an angry tenor and the Nubians leaning more toward a soulful Delta Blues type register.

Nobody knows the troubles these ladies had seen. But nobody. It was a big sound.

So the farmer then foolishly asked, "what next?"

The next day the farmer came out to find Xtra Joy the LaMancha kid with a grapefruit-sized swelling on the side of her head. The type of swelling that makes you take a step backward when you see it, and say, "Holy Smoke!"

In the corner of her mouth Joy had a small cut as well, not noticeable until you peeled her lip back, which caused her to shriek in an ear-piercing way, making a nice counterpoint to the Wagnerian chanting of the crazy ladies. Of course there was no vet available so Joy had to wait until the next day when she was whisked off (2 hours away) to the first goat vet who could see her.

The farmer had started her on antibiotics and banamine to keep the swelling down. The vet looked dubiously at the grapefruit, opining that it felt like scar tissue.

"From what?" the farmer asked. "How can she get scar tissue between breakfast and lunch?"

The vet suggested keeping her on antibiotics to see if the swelling would go down.

"I will do that," said the farmer, "but can you please sedate her and examine inside the cut as well since we came all this way."

Joy was sedated and the vet began probing the cut and got a little flashlight out and some tweezers and a surprised look came over the vet's face and within a few seconds the vet extracted a rubber door stop from deep inside Joy's cheek. Somehow Joy had managed, who could even imagine how, to a) impale herself on the rounded rubber door stop behind the milkroom door with enough force to cut through her cheek and plunge the rubber door stop inside and b) pull her head back quickly enough that the rubber door stop came off and stayed embedded in her cheek.

Foolishly, the farmer asked, "what next?"

Then the old farm truck broke down.

"What next?" the farmer asked.

The new farm truck broke down.

"What next?" the farmer asked.

The phone rang. It was the farmer's neighbor calling to say that Tommy the appaloosa, down in the summer camp pasture in Longbranch, might be feeling sick. This turned out to be the understatement of the year.

Tommy was in a terrible state, horribly swollen, feverish, standing on three legs and shaking with pain, unable to move. Most shocking of all, Tommy would not eat anything.

What had happened to him? No one knew. He was swollen all over his hindlimbs and underbelly. The type of swelling that makes you take a step backward when you see it, and say, "Holy Smoke!" His legs looked like elephant legs.

Even such a hardened character as the farmer, fresh from seeing a goat with a rubber door stop embedded in its cheek, was shaken.

"Holy Smoke," the horse vet said, when he saw Tommy.

No one quite knew what was wrong with Tommy. For three days he could barely move, and had to have buckets of water carried to him to drink. He was loaded up 24 hours a day with pain medicine and antibiotics. The farmer secretly thought that he would die, but never said anything, just stood next to him in the paddock, chatting casually to him but not touching him, since even his skin was sore so he couldn't be patted on the neck.

On the fourth day, still horribly swollen, Tommy began to walk a little, dragging his toes.

On the fifth day it started to seem that Tommy - probably out of stubbornness - was not going to die.

Tommy has always been extremely bossy, in fact he thinks he is the center of the universe, but like so many animals, when he was very sick he conducted himself with extraordinary dignity and sweetness. He was grateful for every kindness, and nickered softly whenever he saw the farmer.

Now, several weeks later, he is back in charge of the world, and ruling with an iron fetlock, even though he still has a little bit of swelling.

The farmer was looking at him this morning for a long time. And then it seemed like the farmer might have a question, not for Tommy but for the universe.

But then the farmer didn't ask.

Probably a good idea.

Mother of the Year....Not

You should see Wronny's two kids. Maybe some day there will be a picture. Anyway the point is Wronny feeds them all the time. And she also keeps them spotless. They look like the first day of school, spit-shined with their hair slicked back, fat and happy.

Ok then you should see Jammies' two daughters. It is not an exaggeration to say that they are the two most perfect micro-Manchas born anywhere in the world in the history of time. Jammies keeps them immaculate: when they are sleeping they look like a great idea for a new show on Nickelodeon, the two cutest little miniature hamster-monkeys in the world, fat and happy and storing up sleep for a new adventure in the morning. All they need is a theme song.

Ok I think you know where this is going. Anyway at 11:30 on Sunday night the neighbor called to say that one of the babies in the barn was screaming and wouldn't stop. The neighbor knows all the babies, she is a good neighbor. She was over by the fence and heard this constant high-pitched screaming. "I think it is Mango," she said. "Do you want me to go over and check?"

No, thank you for calling, the farmer zipped out there and sure enough as soon as you opened the door to the house there came a very angry screaming. Loud and offended and indignant and extremely distressed. But it didn't sound like Mango. This was the type of screaming that if there were an app to translate it into English the translation would be: "where is the milk that I was promised? I NEED IT RIGHT AWAY!"

Out in the barn were the fat happy babies and the milkers and some of the fat ladies and in the stall at the back were Penrose and Maddy. Penrose was there so she could get extra food and be milked occasionally since there is just no way to dry her off, she is an everlasting fountain of milk. Maddy was there because she was supposed to have her babies - not this week but next week - and she needed to get on her pre-kidding regimen.

Ok of course she skipped the pre-kidding and went right to the kidding and popped her babies out but she was not in a babyproof stall and one of the babies had rolled under the stall door into the aisle where it was fortunately screaming its head off. The other was inside the stall bumbling around ineptly,  both still sopping wet and  no good at standing up, but with lungs like Luciano Pavarotti.

Penrose was attempting to assist one of the babies, then running to the stall door to look at the screamer stranded in the aisle, then running back chuckling to the other baby and nuzzling it, then running back to encourage the other. Wronny had her head over the door and was offering useful advice - "why don't you stand up? That's what I always do when I want to walk somewhere."

Jammies and even Pinky the oblivious Land Whale looked on sympathetically.

Maddy gazed off into the distance, wishing that high-pitched racket would STOP, how on Earth was she supposed to get any sleep?

Fast forward Day Two. Wronny's babies, spotless, fat, happy. Jammies' babies: immaculate, adorable, fat, happy. Maddy's babies: bedraggled and besmirched, no one cleaned them properly, sad and thin and hungry.

The farmer called for the Super Nanny (Wendell): he came out and cleaned the back ends in very short order. Then the farmer filled them up with milk.

"You will get one more day, Maddy.  Just watch Jammies and Wronny if you want to see how it's done. One more day. And then they are going on bottles for good."

....stay tuned.....

Kid of the Year

It is time for our annual poll. Last year it was Goat of the Year but this year it is going to Kid of the Year. You may recall that I won last year by a wide margin in spite of some irregularities (cheating by Scouty) in the electoral system. But I actually don't care if we do Kid of the Year this year instead because I have my own cookbook now. Goat of the Year is so 2006 imho.

Anyway, these are the nominees and the actual poll will be added soon. The voting rules this year will be the same as last year: no rules at all of any kind.

1. Boxcar Betty. Betty is my granddaughter and of course she is very beautiful and intelligent and has a wonderful personality and the conformation of a princess. She won a blue ribbon at the big Fair (the state fair, not some sad side-of-the-road county fair) and when she saw Betty, the judge (Jennifer Bice, who owns the big Redwood Hill goat dairy in California and has bred many national champion goats) said that Betty was - I am quoting verbatim, not paraphrasing - "the cutest thing I have ever seen."

2. Big Orange. Big Orange, Betsy's daughter, is actually named Xanthoria Elegans. She is big, and she is orange, and that's what she has going for her.

3. The Weimaraners. The Weimaraners are running as a team, like when they have too many horses in the Kentucky Derby, and so they put two little no-hopers together to make one big no-hoper. Lucy is one of the Weimaraners. She is Penrose's daughter and likes to follow the farmer everywhere, brown-nosing. She is learning to hike on the trails in Longbranch, and has a little pack she's going to wear - fine if you are a mule, that's what I say. Joy is the other Weimaraner. She is also learning to pack, also a brown nose, and got a big rubber door stop embedded in her cheek a couple of months ago if you are wondering what level of intelligence she has. She also follows the farmer everywhere, and follows Lucy everywhere, and even though they are completely different breeds, people always ask if they are sisters because they look so much alike and go everywhere together like a pair of Olympic figure skaters and are practically the exact same color - the color of a weimaraner. Boring!

4. Peanut. Peanut is Betty's brother and he is my grandson and he is obviously much better than many of the other applicants but he doesn't live here any more and I don't think he should be included in the poll but I am not in charge of the rules and the farmer says Peanut won his heroic struggle for life despite a very difficult birth and it's only fair to include him. Big deal, I say.

5. Tubster. aka Jules. Peaches' minimancha daughter. Tubster has achieved an almost spherical condition by dint of her diligent devotion to eating everything in sight. The farmer says she will be some little milker some day. That's if she doesn't explode first, I guess. Wunderbar.

6. Belle Pepper. Oh my gosh, this is one of my own two wonderful daughters! What a beautiful little goat she is, exquisite in every way with a personality to die for! Gosh, I cannot imagine a more perfect specimen, unless it would be my other daughter, Blue Umbrella, who is equally gorgeous but not in the poll. Belle Pepper! Even her name is adorable!

Okay. Those are the candidates. The pictures and the poll and the candidate statements will be issued soon, but for now you can mull this info over.

Long Live the Queen

Boxcar Betty used to be mild-mannered and obedient. She even went to one show and walked like a princess and won first place and the judge said: "that is the cutest thing I have ever seen."

Then Betty started hanging around with her mother, Hannah Belle. And Betty vowed never to go to another show.

Hannah Belle always thought that obedience was for losers.

So if someone like Pinky would come down and announce that all the milkers were supposed to go to the milk parlor, Hannah Belle would not even get up, she would just turn her head in a leisurely fashion and pop a fresh cud and drawl: "Says Who?"

Hannah Belle was also a master of the head flip - if you haven't read up in your goat glossary the head flip is very similar to its counterpart in the encyclopedia of human gestures. If a goat gives you the head flip, it is the same as if a person flipped you off.

The meaning is: don't stand near me, don't look at my food, move along and stop blotting out the light, outside under the rain gutter would be a good place for you to stand.  Hannah Belle could keep another goat in the opposite corner of her stall without getting up - why get up? that's so much trouble -  by means of the head flip. Iota to this day really doesn't venture into the nook nearest the door in Hannah Belle's stall. She was head-flipped out of it by a master. That kind of head flip leaves a lasting impression, especially on a small potato like Iota.

Until recently Betty was not much of a flipper.

That's all changed: Betty can hardly stop flipping now.

She flipped Blue, she flipped Belle Pepper, she flipped me, she flipped Izzy, she flipped Moldy (not that Moldy noticed), she flipped all the yearlings. She just flipped.

Now, when she is on the other side of the fence, she even flips Pinky, who by this time weighs about a thousand pounds. But discretion is the better part of flipping, and she doesn't flip Wronny or even Brandy. That's a mark of respect - one world leader to another.

We thought it would be a long time before a Nigerian battled to the top of the ladder.

But just yesterday I heard Sandy asking whether it would be okay to go under the broken fence rail and into the driveway and up the hill to the barn and try to stampede the alfalfa.

And Pebbles gave a stumped look and gazed off into the distance and said, "I guess we better ask Betty."

Long Live the Queen.

Good Night, Sweet Prince

There isn't enough room here or anywhere else for a complete list of noble deeds performed by Atticus. So this is only the tip of the iceberg, beginning with goats whose lives were saved:

Betsy (gazing fondly in a part-Nubian manner at large coyote until Atty appeared)
Hannah Belle (2x - once hanging upside down from fence, once stuck in gate requiring Jaws of Life. Atty called for assistance and remained with victim until aid arrived)
Marv (rolled under the deck when he accidentally got born outside in 20 degree weather. Atty would not stop barking)
Buttons and Cappy (born in the down-below shed, Atty would not let anyone in the door)
John and George (born in the pasture when no one was home. Atty escorted them throughout the day)
Mel (Atty lay by her for who knows how long while she was stuck in fence through her own stupidity)
Pinetop (foot trapped between deck boards, could not extricate self, Atty called for assistance)
Strange man came to farm, possibly selling firewood, and started yelling at the farmer for no apparent reason. Atty appeared from nowhere and grabbed the man's shirtsleeve in an encouraging manner, while gazing at the man intently and making a low rumbling noise like an earthquake in the distance. The man was encouraged to stop yelling and get in his car and drive away immediately.
Intervened on behalf of his elderly friend Rocky the Raccoon.
Lay outside Snow Pea's stall for 6 hours when she was crying because she had to stay inside alone.
Allowed baby goats to use him as a trampoline.
Did not kill Wendell, again and again. Repeatedly did not kill Wendell.

Too much more to list. Too many things.

We hope he is on a mountaintop covered with snow somewhere, where it never gets too hot, and the baby goats have nice soft hooves, and the dinner is served on time, and there is a little cave he can lie in, and look out over his domain.

The Joyful Noise

Jammies and Wronny are nothing alike. But they are birds of a feather. They live in a silent world.

Wronny could be having a set of big-headed breech quadruplet bucklings, or she could have one of her hooves slammed in a car door, and she would not make a peep. Jammies is just the same, a little church mouse.

I don't understand it myself, if I need some food I want the management to know about it. Or if I have an itchy spot, I like to notify the farmer. Also when I am having my babies I want to arrange the special treats in advance, not at the last minute when they might be out of swedish fish at the store. And if Pinky is t-boning me, surely that is a good time to call 911. That's what it's for, after all.

But not Jammies. Jammies' plan is to scamper away from trouble and to keep mum on almost every topic, just like Wronny. Except for the scampering, they are temperamental twins. Wronny is the Queen, and she doesn't scamper.

So anyway this week Jammies came into heat and she was ushered into the buck pen and even though she likes to leave the station immediately once she has been serviced - she is not one to linger and chat about the Iowa Caucuses - it was a busy day and Jammies did not get any exit visa. Instead she stayed silently in the buck pen all that day, running like a cat on a hot tin roof to stay one step ahead of the buck.

Several times I looked over and she was panting heavily; her winter coat looks like ten fluffy layers of pashmina. Luckily before long Big Orange came into heat and went and stood outside the fence of the buck pen, and this created a distraction that gave Jammies some breathing room.

The next day the farmer had to go to town and didn't get home until after dark, and so Jammies spent two days in the buck pen. And by that time she was resigned to it.

"I guess this is my new life," she said to herself, and she picked out a corner of the pen that was farthest from the buck but still upwind - with the best escape routes  - and she settled in to live the rest of her life in the Garden of Smelly Aerobic Exercise.

And she never complained or called 911 and just then of course the farmer came down and said, "Jammies! It is Christmas Eve! You come out of there!"

And Jammies scampered like a little white tornado out of the buck pen, as fast as anyone could hope to go on inch-long micro-mancha legs - and she ran like the wind toward the barn, and halfway up the hill she couldn't stop herself, she started bucking and dancing with delight, and she made a joyful noise for all the world to hear.

And lo, the next day it was Christmas.

Apres Moldy le Déluge

It is raining right now but to say that it is raining doesn't really convey the watery reality of what we are experiencing. Every ten minutes or so we get a day's worth of rain, probably one of the record dry days that we had this summer which toward the end made Moldy say, "I am tired of all this sunshine I don't care if it rains all winter long."

So it is Moldy's fault.

Don't worry we will punish her but really it is a kind of no-fault rain that only happens here. It doesn't happen every year but when it does it really does. It is now. It is raining a humbling rain, great sweeps of it thrumming across the meadow. The cottage roof is leaking into a collection of saucepans spread about the bedroom and living room. The gutters are dripping over their sides. Lost Beaver Lake is almost full. The barnyard is a mud pit. There is thunder in the distance. Even Willen went into his run-in, and he is gazing blankly out at the rain, ever so slightly taken aback. It takes a lot to take Willen aback. He doesn't usually go aback.

Bumbles is crying, she got trapped outside. I might let her in later, but I would have to get up and push the door open, and that seems like a lot of trouble. The wind slammed it shut.

It is Tom Robbins rain. It has no plans to stop. I know we mentioned it before, but here it is again, still worth mentioning, since it is the main feature of our life right now. We are waiting, as we always do, for a miracle. We are waiting quietly. There is a hush.

Except for Bumbles.

"The rains will steal down from the Sasquatch slopes. They will rise with the geese from the marshes and sloughs. Rain will fall in sweeps, it will fall in drones, it will fall in cascades of cheap Zen jewelry...And it will rain a fever. Mossy-haired lunatics will roam the dripping peninsulas. Moisture will gleam on the beak of the Raven...Rain will eat the old warpaths, spill the huckleberries, cause toadstools to rise like loaves...And it will rain a miracle..." ~~~~~~ Tom Robbins

Skin Deep

Well, after a few years of seeing baby goats born every year you start to notice the family traits. All of my offspring are beautiful and smart, for example. In Brandy's LaMancha kingpin family, many of the kids have the same habit: they like to stand at the door and grab the sliding bolt with their teeth, sliding the bolt back and forth incessantly so that it makes a clacking sound.

Wronny will slide the bolt until the farmer yells at her to stop. You don't even notice the bolt noise any more until you hear the farmer yelling: "Knock it off, Wronny!" The farmer doesn't even look to see who's doing it. When it goes on forever like that, it's always Wronny.

The Nubians are universally puzzled. Their puzzlement spans all the generations.

In the April family, there is never a generation that goes by that at least one kid doesn't get April's beautiful face. First Mabel had it, then Cammy had it, then Biscuit had it, and this year little pink Hermy has it.

And that brings us to the exception that may or may not prove the rule, although we are starting to think there may not be any rules. But anyway: Big Orange.

Big Orange is tall and elegant and orange and shy and retiring and unfailingly sweet. She is a pacifist, above all. She is the Gandhi of goats. Whenever there is any kind of line she runs immediately to the end of it; she would never think of cutting in front of anyone.

This morning, Winnie, who thinks she is all that and likes to swagger around pushing everyone out of her way even when she isn't going anywhere, came up to Big Orange and stood in front of her and for some reason didn't t-bone Big Orange but instead got a sleepy look.

Big Orange kindly began kissing Winnie's head and cleaning the top of it in a cheerful and solicitous manner, even though 99% of the time Winnie only comes up to Big Orange because she is planning to take her lunch money.

Anyway, Big Orange is a saint.

Now Big Orange had a daughter, a little orange daughter that we are calling Tangerine right now while we mull over some of the excellent name suggestions we have received. Tangerine looks just like Big Orange. She is slightly less orange, and has slightly shorter ears, but really those are the only differences. Any person off the street would be able to walk in here and pick out Tangerine as Big Orange's daughter.

But Tangerine is the OPPOSITE of Big Orange. Tangerine is the angriest baby goat in the world. She is like one of those terrifying human babies that people have sometimes where everyone tiptoes around looking ashen and whispering, "don't wake the baby! Please GOD, don't wake the baby!"

When the farmer goes out in the morning with bucket of milk for the big babies, Tangerine - who is the smallest of the big babies - comes like a BAT OUT OF HELL for the bucket, shrieking the whole way like a fire engine and flinging her body against any obstacle, animate or inanimate, that gets in her way.

Almost entirely because of Tangerine, the big babies are now referred to as The Piranhas. When she isn't hungry, or shouldn't be hungry because her belly is like a beach ball, Tangerine still shrieks like a fire engine whenever she sees a human or any other entity she thinks might be capable of milk propulsion. We cannot figure out why, but she seems to think she can somehow stockpile milk for future use, and that screaming is the best way to make powerful friends.

When in the few moments a day she overcomes her milk monomania, she is gregarious to the point of being annoying, chewing hair, lap hogging, prancing and dancing and making a show of herself. Again, the opposite of her mother.

Oh well. What can you do? Sometimes the orange is truly orange and sometimes the orange is only skin deep.

Mainly on the Plain

We think it was Moldy who said it or it might have been Abby. Nobody in the Baby Belle family would have said it and a LaMancha would never say it, LaManchas come from LaMancha, which is in Spain where the "Man-of" also comes from, and LaMancha in case you didn't know is a high hot arid plain. Arid means dry in case you don't have a dictionary.

So anyway we think it was Moldy, back on that day in August when the flies were buzzing and the sun was beating down on our metal roof and the self-absorbed milkers were hogging all the good shade. We think it was her. She said "I wish it would rain."

And so now lo and behold we are once again up to our pasterns in mud and sitting around waiting for a "considerable" rainstorm with 100% chance of rain predicted. It is already raining, so that is how they know there is a 100% chance of rain.

Great, thanks, good job, way to go, Moldy. And here is the worst part. We are all sitting around the shed glaring at Moldy and of course she doesn't even notice it because she is from Oregon and she is lying around clueless as usual staring out the door at the mud awaiting us when we have to go and get our breakfast and then as if it isn't bad enough right out of the blue she says, "I wish it would stop raining."

Great! Perfect! Thanks, Moldy, we will appreciate that in August when the ground is cracked and the grass is all dead and brown and burnt to a cinder! Way to go, Moldy!

Quake Detector

The farmer was waked up this morning by a very polite little earthquake that rattled the pocket doors in the farmhouse and then went away.

That felt like an earthquake, the farmer thought, but since the dogs weren’t barking, the farmer went back to sleep.

That is one useful thing about dogs, possibly the only useful thing. If there is a big earthquake coming they will start barking and barking about thirty seconds before it hits. They will really bark, like they are going crazy, worse even than if the FedEx truck and the UPS truck came at the same time.

What they are saying is, “RUN OUTSIDE! RUN OUTSIDE!”

During the last big earthquake the farmer was on the phone when the dogs started barking in the most deafening manner imaginable. The farmer put one hand over the phone and yelled at the dogs.

“Be QUIET!” the farmer yelled, but the dogs wouldn’t stop. Then the earthquake hit.

“EARTHQUAKE!” the farmer yelled, pointlessly, since the dogs already knew about it.

The books were jumping off their shelves. The brickwork in the living room toppled with a crash. Outside the window, the whole world was swaying. The horses galloped crazily around their pasture, screaming.

“RUN OUTSIDE!” the farmer yelled, and ran for the door.

Duh, thought the dogs, and ran outside with the farmer.

We Aren't Mice

Well today it was a nice day. There was no ice storm. There wasn't any hail. It didn't really even rain. It was cold in the morning, but it was very nice in general.

So that is one nice day we have had this year.

Here's something funny. Betty the new herd queen has a set of triplets. One is Cubby, the friendliest little goat in the world. If he ever sees a person he runs pronging toward them and throws himself into their arms. Then there is Clover, the triplet girl. She is about the same as Cubby, maybe about 18% less enthusiastic, still way up there on the Friendlies Chart.

Then there is the little tiny one that looks just like Betty, only very pinched. His name used to be Midget, but now he is just called The Wart. Short for worrywart. That's all he does.

Worry.Worry worry worry.

If it isn't raining, he worries that it will start raining. If it is raining, he worries it will stop.

"We need rain for our crops." he says. (What crops? Is he talking about the goat berries?)

If it is time to go outside, he worries that there might be intruders outside. That's ridiculous, intruders come inside. That's why they're called intruders. If it is time to come inside, he worries that a cat might be waiting under the feeder in the stall.

"So what?" everyone says. "What is a cat going to do?"

"Cats kill mice," he explains, ominously.

"So what?" everyone says. "We aren't mice."

Today the farmer came to take all the babies outside, all seven of them. Six went pronging cheerfully out the door. Not the Wart.

"I'm not going," he yelled, from under the feeder. "I'm afraid I'll get separated from everybody."

Then when everyone had disappeared from sight, he ran screaming out of the barn.

Who is this kid anyway? His mother is the Queen, his father is totally chill. And he is The Wart.

Little dude, why not forget all that hassle and relax like Cubby and Clover? Like Cloudy and Horatio? Like the two little LaManchas, what are their names anyway? Have some Cherry Trance Milk and just relax.

Outside the Lines With Belle and Crumpet

Butterbean was getting a lot of attention just for the simple fact of not having a tail which can hardly be considered an accomplishment and June Bug was still making headlines and Coco luckily had that shed fall on her which made her famous for what seemed like a long spell - hello! I am Coco! The shed victim! I accept your admiration! -  and Gilbert was learning to pull a cart and the Wembley babies gambolled about picturesquely and all in all Crumpet came down with a touch of Last Year's Baby and so she went in with Belle Starr and together they started a crime spree.

They were both sick and tired of being ignored.  Since they are both criminal masterminds, together they became almost unstoppable. All of their crimes were focused on grain-robbing, switching only temporarily to alfalfa-robbing when the third cutting from Ellensburg came in.

Butterbean would come waddling around in the morning showing off his uninhabited backside and the farmer would chuckle - how cute - and look away for an instant and just as the barn door opened Belle Starr would dart in front of the farmer so that the farmer had to take a step back and when that happened Crumpet would dash in from the other side hellbent toward the grain bins.

The grain bins are locked of course since the farmer is weak-minded but has learned some things the hard way, so when Crumpet got there she would start rapidly circling the grain bins like a little hummingbird while Belle Starr darted in from the other side and began circling the grain bins in the other direction, both running at a good clip and in such a manner that the farmer could not get close enough to open the lids and finally the farmer would sigh loudly and say, "All Right," which was the established checkmate signal and Belle and Crumpet would stop circling and the farmer would open the bins and give them their breakfast in a private dish while everyone else waited outside.

Because otherwise the circling went on forever. And forever is too long to wait for breakfast.

The Rites of Spring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgive me while I dry my eyes.