Xie Xie was not able to fool the farmer. She delivered a set of twins in plain sight. They are both mini-Manchas, and both blue-eyed. As far as the "mini" part goes, we are not so sure they got that memo.
Both of them are butterballs and if anything they weigh more than Big Orange's Lamancha kids. One of them, the boy, is a terrible whiner. He cries just like a little baby. All day long.
Where is the milk? Waa waa waa. Why is it in a bottle? Waa waa waa. Shouldn't it be on tap? Waa waa waa. Is someone stepping on me? Waa waa waa.
He has already cried more in one day than I ever cried in my whole life.
So the trifecta is out, but Betsy still has a chance at a stealth kidding.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
You're Getting Verrrry Sleepy...
The Betsy family excels in stealth kidding, as you know. Apparently this is done partly by ESP. Betsy and her daughter Big Orange were in the pre-kidding stall for several days doing nothing. Then Monday morning as the farmer was getting ready to feed the fat girls down below, a series of telepathic messages arrived in the farmer's head.
"They are so fat," the first message said. "Why don't you feed them later."
But the farmer already had the buckets out and proceeded to ignore this suggestion. A second message arrived, this one in all caps: "WOULDN'T IT BE NICE TO HAVE A BREAKFAST OMELET WITH THOSE FRESH EGGS YOU GOT YESTERDAY."
How odd, the farmer thought. I really do not usually eat breakfast. But by this time the farmer was under Betsy Family mind control, and went inside to make an omelet, leaving the feed buckets in the barn, and forgetting to check on the pregnant ladies, who were quiet as two mice in their stall. That should have been a tipoff right there.
Twenty minutes later the farmer came out and instead of two girls in the Betsy/Orange pre-kidding stall, there were three, one of them pale orange and quite small but very angry. Shortly, a large dark sidekick arrived to go with the tiny, furious little bumblebee.
This marks the third year in a row that the Betsy family has snuck in at least one unattended kidding. Last year they had two. And since Betsy and Xie Xie are still pregnant, this year they have a chance to go for the trifecta.
Anyway, Big Orange had twin does. One is very pretty. The other is very very pretty. Don't worry, you don't have to do anything. We will use up any leftover Z names on them.
"They are so fat," the first message said. "Why don't you feed them later."
But the farmer already had the buckets out and proceeded to ignore this suggestion. A second message arrived, this one in all caps: "WOULDN'T IT BE NICE TO HAVE A BREAKFAST OMELET WITH THOSE FRESH EGGS YOU GOT YESTERDAY."
How odd, the farmer thought. I really do not usually eat breakfast. But by this time the farmer was under Betsy Family mind control, and went inside to make an omelet, leaving the feed buckets in the barn, and forgetting to check on the pregnant ladies, who were quiet as two mice in their stall. That should have been a tipoff right there.
Twenty minutes later the farmer came out and instead of two girls in the Betsy/Orange pre-kidding stall, there were three, one of them pale orange and quite small but very angry. Shortly, a large dark sidekick arrived to go with the tiny, furious little bumblebee.
This marks the third year in a row that the Betsy family has snuck in at least one unattended kidding. Last year they had two. And since Betsy and Xie Xie are still pregnant, this year they have a chance to go for the trifecta.
Anyway, Big Orange had twin does. One is very pretty. The other is very very pretty. Don't worry, you don't have to do anything. We will use up any leftover Z names on them.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
The Science Fair
Well the Farmer went around and around and around and the final two name contenders for Pinky are Zedoary - which is a kind of ginger - and the late inning surprise name Zapricot - which is Apricot, with a Z in front of it. So those are the final two choices left from all the many name suggestions.
And if it can't be decided by next Monday we are going to flip a coin. Who cares anyway we are just going to call her Pinky.
Little Pinky is not getting any smarter, either. Even after the head-bashing episode she still runs into things for no apparent reason. Or as the farmer used to say when trying for the umpteenth time to teach Pinky's great-grandmother Stacy to jump on the milkstand, "she is not going to win the Science Fair."
On the other hand my daughter Hannah Belle has finally been able to teach the farmer that she doesn't want her kids in the barn. She was coming up three times a day to feed them but when the farmer had the stall door open for cleaning the other day, Hannah Belle swooped in out of the blue and gave Inky and Shaq the high sign and the whole family skedaddled.
Now everyone is happy and Hannah Belle doesn't have to trudge up to the barn all day long, which was very tiresome for her.
In other news it can now be announced with certainty that both of my other daughters - Belle Pepper and Blue Umbrella - are going to kid in July. These will be the first kids from our new buck, the debonair and handsome but not particularly manly Cowboy.
There was some doubt about whether Cowboy, being just a wide-eyed teenager at the time, had been able to perform his buckly duties last winter. But it appears that the girls were able to educate him. Blue Umbrella in particular is an excellent teacher, like Hannah Belle, even though some of her pupils, as mentioned previously, are not going to win the Science Fair.
And if it can't be decided by next Monday we are going to flip a coin. Who cares anyway we are just going to call her Pinky.
Little Pinky is not getting any smarter, either. Even after the head-bashing episode she still runs into things for no apparent reason. Or as the farmer used to say when trying for the umpteenth time to teach Pinky's great-grandmother Stacy to jump on the milkstand, "she is not going to win the Science Fair."
On the other hand my daughter Hannah Belle has finally been able to teach the farmer that she doesn't want her kids in the barn. She was coming up three times a day to feed them but when the farmer had the stall door open for cleaning the other day, Hannah Belle swooped in out of the blue and gave Inky and Shaq the high sign and the whole family skedaddled.
Now everyone is happy and Hannah Belle doesn't have to trudge up to the barn all day long, which was very tiresome for her.
In other news it can now be announced with certainty that both of my other daughters - Belle Pepper and Blue Umbrella - are going to kid in July. These will be the first kids from our new buck, the debonair and handsome but not particularly manly Cowboy.
There was some doubt about whether Cowboy, being just a wide-eyed teenager at the time, had been able to perform his buckly duties last winter. But it appears that the girls were able to educate him. Blue Umbrella in particular is an excellent teacher, like Hannah Belle, even though some of her pupils, as mentioned previously, are not going to win the Science Fair.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Summer Days
It isn't summer but it feels like summer. One crazy guy down the road is already cutting hay.
We are counting the days waiting for the pasteurizer to arrive. Only we don't know how many days it's going to be, so why are we counting the days? We think it will be here in about two weeks.
Hannah Belle is very fond of her two sons Inky and Shaq, but she finds it quite boring hanging around the barn with them all day. They don't really do anything besides twitter and hop around like little birds, and Hannah Belle prefers directed activities, ideally of the sort that culminate in the acquisition of tasty food products - grain, peanuts, sweet canary grass in the meadow, red licorice, et cetera.
So she goes up to the barn three times a day, lets Inky and Shaq drink all the milk they want for about three minutes, then returns to her monomaniacal foraging, sunbathing, and intellectually superior ruminating.
The Betsy Family is almost ready to kid, all three of them. Betsy herself is quite huge, but so is Big orange, and so is Xie Xie, who is even prettier than she was last year. Betsy went on the milk bench for the first time today, and then she got trapped in the exit area because she couldn't figure out how to push open the gate.
Just PUSH IT, BETSY! LIKE THE TEN OTHER GOATS THAT WENT BEFORE YOU!
Dios Mio.
We are counting the days waiting for the pasteurizer to arrive. Only we don't know how many days it's going to be, so why are we counting the days? We think it will be here in about two weeks.
Hannah Belle is very fond of her two sons Inky and Shaq, but she finds it quite boring hanging around the barn with them all day. They don't really do anything besides twitter and hop around like little birds, and Hannah Belle prefers directed activities, ideally of the sort that culminate in the acquisition of tasty food products - grain, peanuts, sweet canary grass in the meadow, red licorice, et cetera.
So she goes up to the barn three times a day, lets Inky and Shaq drink all the milk they want for about three minutes, then returns to her monomaniacal foraging, sunbathing, and intellectually superior ruminating.
The Betsy Family is almost ready to kid, all three of them. Betsy herself is quite huge, but so is Big orange, and so is Xie Xie, who is even prettier than she was last year. Betsy went on the milk bench for the first time today, and then she got trapped in the exit area because she couldn't figure out how to push open the gate.
Just PUSH IT, BETSY! LIKE THE TEN OTHER GOATS THAT WENT BEFORE YOU!
Dios Mio.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
They're Here
Well Hannah Belle underdid herself this time, producing only two kids, both of whom are luckily extremely gorgeous. Since they are fine flashy strapping boys with no apparent physical defects, she already ditched them to go free-ranging in the garden.
When that didn't sit too well with the farmer she went back in with them for a few minutes, looking pious and motherly while the cameras were filming, then re-ditched them to go sit on the cable spools in the horse pasture.
In regards to her previously quadrupletesque figure, she still looks like she could have twins at a moment's notice.
When that didn't sit too well with the farmer she went back in with them for a few minutes, looking pious and motherly while the cameras were filming, then re-ditched them to go sit on the cable spools in the horse pasture.
In regards to her previously quadrupletesque figure, she still looks like she could have twins at a moment's notice.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Zero Hour
The farmer has finally had it with Hannah Belle. Hannah Belle is being moved to the kidding stall, like it or not.
And she better like it.
This means the LaMancha weaners, all of whom have been crying hysterically for four days as they adjust to a world without milk, will be plunged into a new reality show called "Outdoor Living."
Or, as I like to think of it, "I'm a LaMancha Baby, Get Me Out of Here!"
And she better like it.
This means the LaMancha weaners, all of whom have been crying hysterically for four days as they adjust to a world without milk, will be plunged into a new reality show called "Outdoor Living."
Or, as I like to think of it, "I'm a LaMancha Baby, Get Me Out of Here!"
Monday, May 18, 2009
It Loved To Happen
Since March it has been believed that my daughter Hannah Belle might kid at any moment. She looks like one of those trucks going down the highway with half of someone’s house on it and an advance car (usually in the form of her chuckleheaded sidekick Miss Melly) leading the way.
Hannah Belle herself has remained calm and not tipped her hand about her plans, enjoying several pre-birthing spa treatments without ever actually having to do any birthing, which can be tiring.
In any case, she was on the chart with a date of June 5 pencilled in, since that was 5 months from the date of her last (of many) breedings.
When people would come over they would say, “oh, Hannah Belle Lecter must be having her babies soon.”
“Yes,” the farmer would say, “possibly.”
“She doesn’t look like she can go much longer.”
“No, not really,” the farmer would say.
And then a day and a week and a month would pass, with Hannah Belle getting larger and no kids appearing. Now it is mid-May, and it appears, like Rachel Alexandra, that she may actually go the distance.
If anything, she is starting to look a little smaller, which is one of the strange things that sometimes happens with Hannah Belle, who almost always has a set of beautiful triplets, except for one time when she had a set of beautiful twins. We have only ever had two sets of quadruplets born here, so we doubt she will have more than three.
We doubt it. We really doubt it. Sort of.
Because when it comes to Hannah Belle, I am proud to say that it pays to expect the unexpected. Or, to quote the famous philosopher Jackson Browne, “don’t think it won’t happen just because it hasn’t happened yet.”
Hannah Belle herself has remained calm and not tipped her hand about her plans, enjoying several pre-birthing spa treatments without ever actually having to do any birthing, which can be tiring.
In any case, she was on the chart with a date of June 5 pencilled in, since that was 5 months from the date of her last (of many) breedings.
When people would come over they would say, “oh, Hannah Belle Lecter must be having her babies soon.”
“Yes,” the farmer would say, “possibly.”
“She doesn’t look like she can go much longer.”
“No, not really,” the farmer would say.
And then a day and a week and a month would pass, with Hannah Belle getting larger and no kids appearing. Now it is mid-May, and it appears, like Rachel Alexandra, that she may actually go the distance.
If anything, she is starting to look a little smaller, which is one of the strange things that sometimes happens with Hannah Belle, who almost always has a set of beautiful triplets, except for one time when she had a set of beautiful twins. We have only ever had two sets of quadruplets born here, so we doubt she will have more than three.
We doubt it. We really doubt it. Sort of.
Because when it comes to Hannah Belle, I am proud to say that it pays to expect the unexpected. Or, to quote the famous philosopher Jackson Browne, “don’t think it won’t happen just because it hasn’t happened yet.”
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Primates - Go Figure!
Well, the farmer’s precious pet Winnie got very sick. She had milk fever and went down like a stone. She couldn’t walk, because she couldn’t stand up, and the farmer sat around petting her and giving her calcium and Vitamin B and swaddling her in blankets and fetching salal and huckleberry and fresh grass and leaves and all kinds of tempting treats.
I did not get my feet trimmed as had been promised, and Lucy did not get her haircut fixed. Tangy did not do any walking practice – Tangy walks like a swordfish reeled to the surface on a sportfishing tv show, hurling her whole body against the collar and flapping around in mid-air - and the compost pile did not get turned. Domino didn’t get castrated, either, but he didn’t mind.
All because Princess Winnie was sick.
Sometimes I do not understand the workings of the primate mind, because personally I think Winnie is a pain. To me, I say, c’est la vie, if a goat has milk fever and won’t get up to eat, then it doesn’t have much gumption which probably signals weak genes.
I have had milk fever but that is because I had triplets who were very hungry because of their exceptional genetic makeup. Whereas with Winnie, her triplets are perfectly ordinary, and one of them was even a runt, so again we get back to the weak genes, and honestly I don’t understand all the extra effort that could have been better used fixing Lucy’s haircut (looks like it was done with a lawnmower) or castrating Domino the-soon-to-be-wether who really has become a pest with his goatboy ideas.
But this is just one example of how the primate mind works.
Primates can be useful, they have those fingers for picking bugs off you and scratching that part near your withers where you can’t reach, but do not try to figure out what they are thinking. Even if you could do it, you would probably not want to know.
Winnie got better but obviously through no fault of her own weak genes.
I did not get my feet trimmed as had been promised, and Lucy did not get her haircut fixed. Tangy did not do any walking practice – Tangy walks like a swordfish reeled to the surface on a sportfishing tv show, hurling her whole body against the collar and flapping around in mid-air - and the compost pile did not get turned. Domino didn’t get castrated, either, but he didn’t mind.
All because Princess Winnie was sick.
Sometimes I do not understand the workings of the primate mind, because personally I think Winnie is a pain. To me, I say, c’est la vie, if a goat has milk fever and won’t get up to eat, then it doesn’t have much gumption which probably signals weak genes.
I have had milk fever but that is because I had triplets who were very hungry because of their exceptional genetic makeup. Whereas with Winnie, her triplets are perfectly ordinary, and one of them was even a runt, so again we get back to the weak genes, and honestly I don’t understand all the extra effort that could have been better used fixing Lucy’s haircut (looks like it was done with a lawnmower) or castrating Domino the-soon-to-be-wether who really has become a pest with his goatboy ideas.
But this is just one example of how the primate mind works.
Primates can be useful, they have those fingers for picking bugs off you and scratching that part near your withers where you can’t reach, but do not try to figure out what they are thinking. Even if you could do it, you would probably not want to know.
Winnie got better but obviously through no fault of her own weak genes.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Two More
There are two more of them now. LaMancha bottle baby monsters. Jessie's kids.
They don't have names either, Z is a very hard year, and they all look exactly alike except Pinky and that other one, Joemma, who is part Toggenburg even though she has no ears. The rest of them run around in a black blur, some are black and tan, some are black and cream, some are black and brown. They are all boring.
"Aren't they cute?" says the farmer, carrying them around.
Not really, I think. But what can you say.
To be polite, I try to pretend I am charmed by their puckish antics. Goodness! They're adorable! With their earless heads and their little monkey faces! Look at them knocking all the buckets over and dancing across the clean hay with their muddy footprints! What could be cuter!
Who has time to list all the cuter things than an earless-monkey-looking baby goat? Let's just start with a Nigerian Dwarf baby goat, maybe? By like 10,000 percent or so?
That brings us back to Hannah Belle Lecter, my daughter, who has been steadily achieving a more and more blimp-like condition. Each week Lori says, "she must be getting close," but since every year Hannah Belle is bred approximately 17 times (she enjoys breeding, what can I say, it's a free country) we never know exactly when she might kid.
But even I would say, as I see her lumbering across the pasture blotting out the sun with her bulk (not today, today it's raining), even I would say, "she must be getting close."
Mustn't she?
They don't have names either, Z is a very hard year, and they all look exactly alike except Pinky and that other one, Joemma, who is part Toggenburg even though she has no ears. The rest of them run around in a black blur, some are black and tan, some are black and cream, some are black and brown. They are all boring.
"Aren't they cute?" says the farmer, carrying them around.
Not really, I think. But what can you say.
To be polite, I try to pretend I am charmed by their puckish antics. Goodness! They're adorable! With their earless heads and their little monkey faces! Look at them knocking all the buckets over and dancing across the clean hay with their muddy footprints! What could be cuter!
Who has time to list all the cuter things than an earless-monkey-looking baby goat? Let's just start with a Nigerian Dwarf baby goat, maybe? By like 10,000 percent or so?
That brings us back to Hannah Belle Lecter, my daughter, who has been steadily achieving a more and more blimp-like condition. Each week Lori says, "she must be getting close," but since every year Hannah Belle is bred approximately 17 times (she enjoys breeding, what can I say, it's a free country) we never know exactly when she might kid.
But even I would say, as I see her lumbering across the pasture blotting out the sun with her bulk (not today, today it's raining), even I would say, "she must be getting close."
Mustn't she?
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Earth Day
It was Earth Day this week which gave us a good excuse to celebrate the force that through the green fuse drives the flower. Go flowers! But excuse me isn't every day Earth Day? Or is there a backup planet we will all be moving to?
If that's the case I hope there won't be so many bottle babies on it.
Especially of the LaMancha doeling persuasion, enough already with the earless terrors. This new one Pinky who is being called Zut Alors (she does look kind of French and believe me that's no compliment) while her real name is decided is perhaps the holiest of the terrors I have had to endure.
She was already pampered to death before she cracked her head open and after that she was practically carried everywhere on a satin cushion. Make a note of these two easy steps if you would like to create your own bottle baby monster.
Now she runs everywhere screaming. She pushes the other bottle babies off the slide. She fastens her jaws to the farmer's hand - or any hand that happens to be carrying a bucket of milk - like a lamprey eel. She t-bones anyone who tries to sit on the farmer's lap.
And then I get reprimanded for gently helping her find her way out of my stall.
"Don't hurt little Pinky now," says the farmer. "She's still recovering."
Oh please. Please.
If that's the case I hope there won't be so many bottle babies on it.
Especially of the LaMancha doeling persuasion, enough already with the earless terrors. This new one Pinky who is being called Zut Alors (she does look kind of French and believe me that's no compliment) while her real name is decided is perhaps the holiest of the terrors I have had to endure.
She was already pampered to death before she cracked her head open and after that she was practically carried everywhere on a satin cushion. Make a note of these two easy steps if you would like to create your own bottle baby monster.
Now she runs everywhere screaming. She pushes the other bottle babies off the slide. She fastens her jaws to the farmer's hand - or any hand that happens to be carrying a bucket of milk - like a lamprey eel. She t-bones anyone who tries to sit on the farmer's lap.
And then I get reprimanded for gently helping her find her way out of my stall.
"Don't hurt little Pinky now," says the farmer. "She's still recovering."
Oh please. Please.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Beautiful Day
It is important to keep track of the most beautiful days of the year, so you can remember them later. Yesterday was one of the top ten most beautiful days of the year. It was like old times - the farmer left all the pesky bottle babies and came and sat on the tank cover with me in the sun and scratched all over my back while I head-butted attention seekers away as necessary. It was a beautiful day, and today will be too.
Today will be a good day for a birthday, and somebody is going to have one: Jessie the so-called beauty queen Lamancha yearling is headed to the kidding stall right now.
It's a beautiful day. Don't let it get away.
Today will be a good day for a birthday, and somebody is going to have one: Jessie the so-called beauty queen Lamancha yearling is headed to the kidding stall right now.
It's a beautiful day. Don't let it get away.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
It Does A Body Good
Little Baby Z looked very bad yesterday morning. She had three shots of medicine: one for tetanus prevention, one to stop other kinds of infection, and one of vitamin B. She was shivering and lethargic and didn’t notice when the farmer moved her inside to the baby nursery.
She didn’t make even a peep, much less offer the kind of Grand Prix tantrum* she and her mother have down to an art form. Instead she just lay and shivered, eyes foggy and blank.
The farmer put a sweater on her. She kept shivering. The farmer put another sweater on top of the first sweater. She looked stylish – pink and white crocheted jacket over a black terrycloth undervest - but quite miserable.
The baby nursery is a little pen on the kitchen floor of the cottage. The pen is about four feet square and about two feet high and bedded with nice fluffy straw. It sits a few feet away from the woodstove so it can be made quite cozy.
The farmer put Baby Z in the baby nursery and left to do chores, checking back perdiodically. On the fourth check, late in the afternoon, the farmer coaxed her into drinking a large bottle of warm milk.
She seemed to wake up a little, and looked around in surprise, wearing the expression of the amnesia patient on a bad tv show – where am I? - before settling back to sleep.
On the fifth bed check, Baby Z was not in the baby pen. She had jumped over the fence and gone to look for her friends, leaving a trail of baby goat pee throughout the cottage and knocking over a stack of magazines used to start fires in the woodstove, then eating – or perhaps just chewing and spitting out - part of a New Yorker** cover.
She was dancing on the coffee table in the living room when finally apprehended.
And that’s why it is so important to drink your milk.
* When they add tantrums to the Olympics, bet on these two for Gold and Silver.
** (Editor’s note: do not use New Yorkers to start fires. It is not the right kind of paper. We know that. We ran out of newspaper inserts.)
She didn’t make even a peep, much less offer the kind of Grand Prix tantrum* she and her mother have down to an art form. Instead she just lay and shivered, eyes foggy and blank.
The farmer put a sweater on her. She kept shivering. The farmer put another sweater on top of the first sweater. She looked stylish – pink and white crocheted jacket over a black terrycloth undervest - but quite miserable.
The baby nursery is a little pen on the kitchen floor of the cottage. The pen is about four feet square and about two feet high and bedded with nice fluffy straw. It sits a few feet away from the woodstove so it can be made quite cozy.
The farmer put Baby Z in the baby nursery and left to do chores, checking back perdiodically. On the fourth check, late in the afternoon, the farmer coaxed her into drinking a large bottle of warm milk.
She seemed to wake up a little, and looked around in surprise, wearing the expression of the amnesia patient on a bad tv show – where am I? - before settling back to sleep.
On the fifth bed check, Baby Z was not in the baby pen. She had jumped over the fence and gone to look for her friends, leaving a trail of baby goat pee throughout the cottage and knocking over a stack of magazines used to start fires in the woodstove, then eating – or perhaps just chewing and spitting out - part of a New Yorker** cover.
She was dancing on the coffee table in the living room when finally apprehended.
And that’s why it is so important to drink your milk.
* When they add tantrums to the Olympics, bet on these two for Gold and Silver.
** (Editor’s note: do not use New Yorkers to start fires. It is not the right kind of paper. We know that. We ran out of newspaper inserts.)
Monday, April 13, 2009
Cross Your Fingers
The little doeling Pinky had a freak accident yesterday and we are very worried about her. She got a bad gash and lost a lot of blood. The farmer was wondering how much blood a little baby goat could have but didn't want to look it up because sometimes it is better not to know too much. On the other hand Pinky is very feisty and when the farmer tried to take her inside for observation and intensive care she pitched such a tantrum at being separated from her friends that it just wasn't worth it.
Anyway please keep your fingers crossed for little Pinky-Zena-Zinnia-Zedoary-Zinfandel-etc.
Anyway please keep your fingers crossed for little Pinky-Zena-Zinnia-Zedoary-Zinfandel-etc.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Enough Already About the PJs
Jammies Jammies Jammies.
This is all I hear all day long.
Isn’t Jammies adorable. Look how tiny she is. Look at her cute little udder. Look how she loves the milkstand. Look how she gives the farmer kisses. Jammies Jammies Jammies. Look how she is growing a beard. (A sad little beard to go with her sad little eyes.) Jammies’ milk is so sweet and creamy, it is just like candy. Yada Yada Yada.
I am good and sick of it.
The other day one of the farmer’s friends came over and the farmer launched into the same tiresome Jammies Jammies Jammies monologue.
“Oh,” said the farmer’s friend. “I’d love to try her milk. Can I have some?”
The farmer turned all beady-eyed and started hemming and stammering and offering up crocodile regrets.
“Oh, I am so sorry, if only I hadn’t just used it. How too bad. If I’d known you would want some,” etc etc etc. The kind of excuse that is way too complicated. The farmer’s friend made a skeptical face.
“Maybe next time,” he said grimly.
“Maybe,” agreed the farmer, brightly. Translation: NEVER.
We all know there is plenty of Jammies milk hoarded up in the farm kitchen since the farmer has a terrible fear of running out of the world’s most perfect latte milk.
It was a sad display. Very sad.
This is all I hear all day long.
Isn’t Jammies adorable. Look how tiny she is. Look at her cute little udder. Look how she loves the milkstand. Look how she gives the farmer kisses. Jammies Jammies Jammies. Look how she is growing a beard. (A sad little beard to go with her sad little eyes.) Jammies’ milk is so sweet and creamy, it is just like candy. Yada Yada Yada.
I am good and sick of it.
The other day one of the farmer’s friends came over and the farmer launched into the same tiresome Jammies Jammies Jammies monologue.
“Oh,” said the farmer’s friend. “I’d love to try her milk. Can I have some?”
The farmer turned all beady-eyed and started hemming and stammering and offering up crocodile regrets.
“Oh, I am so sorry, if only I hadn’t just used it. How too bad. If I’d known you would want some,” etc etc etc. The kind of excuse that is way too complicated. The farmer’s friend made a skeptical face.
“Maybe next time,” he said grimly.
“Maybe,” agreed the farmer, brightly. Translation: NEVER.
We all know there is plenty of Jammies milk hoarded up in the farm kitchen since the farmer has a terrible fear of running out of the world’s most perfect latte milk.
It was a sad display. Very sad.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
g.o.t.d.
We have not had Goat of the Day in a long time. Our goat of the day is Bertie. Bertie is Boo’s daughter, so she is half Nubian. That’s unfortunate but it can’t be helped.
Her real name is Sister Bertrille, but we call her Bertie, or Big Bird. She is big, and with her tiny winged ears she looks like a prehistoric flightless bird, a Nubian Dodo or some such thing. (Nubodo? Dodubian?)
The other half is LaMancha. She got the good half of each: she is gentle and kind like a sweet Nubian (her grandmother Marty, for example), but she shows up for work like a LaMancha. She can be put in a stall with the tiniest milker – Jammies the sad-eyed mini-Mancha is her roommate right now – and no harm will come to the teeny one. On the other hand, when you are ready to milk, so is she.
Last week Bertie performed a textbook delivery of a pair of pretty twin does. She did it without any fuss, drama, delays, or hijinks. Right now she is milking nicely and not screaming or kicking the bucket or running in circles aroound the milkstand, unlike certain dry yearlings who shall remain nameless.
So she is our Goat of the Day.
Congratulations to Bertie.
Her real name is Sister Bertrille, but we call her Bertie, or Big Bird. She is big, and with her tiny winged ears she looks like a prehistoric flightless bird, a Nubian Dodo or some such thing. (Nubodo? Dodubian?)
The other half is LaMancha. She got the good half of each: she is gentle and kind like a sweet Nubian (her grandmother Marty, for example), but she shows up for work like a LaMancha. She can be put in a stall with the tiniest milker – Jammies the sad-eyed mini-Mancha is her roommate right now – and no harm will come to the teeny one. On the other hand, when you are ready to milk, so is she.
Last week Bertie performed a textbook delivery of a pair of pretty twin does. She did it without any fuss, drama, delays, or hijinks. Right now she is milking nicely and not screaming or kicking the bucket or running in circles aroound the milkstand, unlike certain dry yearlings who shall remain nameless.
So she is our Goat of the Day.
Congratulations to Bertie.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
The Young and the Nameless
It has happened again. We should have known it would happen. It happened to her mother. And to her mother’s mother. And now it has happened to her.
First was her grandmother who went through reams of names which wouldn’t stick. The only thing that would stick was “Big Orange,” since she was quite large and bright orange.
This is a naming problem that runs in the farmer’s family, the tendency to just call an animal by its color. The farmer’s family, growing up, would always – just for example - have a black cat. The cat would have a clever official name, like Midnight or Satan.
The farmer’s father would come home from work and see the cat and say, “oh, hello, Blackie.” Or, “where is Blackie?” And all the cats gradually became Blackie.
Anyway finally Big Orange received a name through the kindness of blog commenters. It was an X Year so it was particularly difficult to think of anything, but in the end a brilliant name was devised for her even though we must admit that to this day around the barn everyone calls her Big Orange.
Eventually she had a daughter who was also orange, but a much paler orange, and not quite as large as B.O. This daughter was called Tangerine, or Tangy for short, but that couldn’t be allowed to stick because it was a Y Year. So eventually another excellent name came from the blog, even though – you guessed it – everyone here still calls her Tangy.
Well, owing to some new slats on the buck gate which apparently allow for conjugal visiting through the eye of the needle, Tangy is now a teenage mother. Her week-old daughter, who is the palest orange yet – shading actually into pinkish-yellowish – has already been through several names.
It is a Z Year, and her failed monikers include: Zinnia, Zinbad, ZZ-Top, Agent Zero, Zinfandel, and Zsa Zsa. She is now being called – you guessed it - Pinky.
She needs a real name. A Z Name. One that will stick to her.
First was her grandmother who went through reams of names which wouldn’t stick. The only thing that would stick was “Big Orange,” since she was quite large and bright orange.
This is a naming problem that runs in the farmer’s family, the tendency to just call an animal by its color. The farmer’s family, growing up, would always – just for example - have a black cat. The cat would have a clever official name, like Midnight or Satan.
The farmer’s father would come home from work and see the cat and say, “oh, hello, Blackie.” Or, “where is Blackie?” And all the cats gradually became Blackie.
Anyway finally Big Orange received a name through the kindness of blog commenters. It was an X Year so it was particularly difficult to think of anything, but in the end a brilliant name was devised for her even though we must admit that to this day around the barn everyone calls her Big Orange.
Eventually she had a daughter who was also orange, but a much paler orange, and not quite as large as B.O. This daughter was called Tangerine, or Tangy for short, but that couldn’t be allowed to stick because it was a Y Year. So eventually another excellent name came from the blog, even though – you guessed it – everyone here still calls her Tangy.
Well, owing to some new slats on the buck gate which apparently allow for conjugal visiting through the eye of the needle, Tangy is now a teenage mother. Her week-old daughter, who is the palest orange yet – shading actually into pinkish-yellowish – has already been through several names.
It is a Z Year, and her failed monikers include: Zinnia, Zinbad, ZZ-Top, Agent Zero, Zinfandel, and Zsa Zsa. She is now being called – you guessed it - Pinky.
She needs a real name. A Z Name. One that will stick to her.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Little Goat, Big World
...continued
Well Winnie as you know is a member of the Soprano Family of Lamanchas. Like Ronny, she is a Brandy daughter, and all the Brandy daughters are professional goats.
This means that they are not amateurs. They do everything according to the Guidelines and Bylaws of the Professional Dairy Goat Association. That includes kidding.
So after giving the traditional foghorn bellow signaling the start of kidding, Winnie went through the PDGA kidding checklist, which goes like this:
1. Site prep: not to exceed 20 minutes. (Includes circling, arranging straw, nesting, pawing, examining water bucket, hollering for an attendant.)
2. Preliminary test pushing: not to exceed 20 minutes. (Includes getting up and down, open-mouth breathing, warm-up pushing from comfortable sternally recumbent position, hollering for an attendant as necessary).
3. Moderate pushing: not to exceed 20 minutes. (Includes stretching exercises, pawing as necessary, looking behind you to make sure you didn’t accidentally kid already, pushing from lying-flat-on-your-side position, muffled or silent screams optional).
4. Serious pushing: not to exceed 10 minutes, recumbent or standing position as suits the mission. Push with all your muscles and scream if you feel like it. Once the head is through, give the trademark “Soprano” wiggle to squirt the first kid all the way out.
5. Break for grain, cookies, and warm water: not to exceed 10 minutes. Relax a little, then repeat steps 4 and 5 for each subsequent kid.
All the steps were completed on schedule, producing two strapping buck kids. The farmer bounced Winnie and did not feel any more kids.
“Is that all?” said Lori, when the second buckling came inside to the baby nursery.
“Yes I think so,” said the farmer.
“Oh really,” said Lori, and went out to the barn while the farmer started the two bucklings. In a few minutes (not exceeding ten) Lori came back in with a tiny bundle and began barking orders. “This one needs help,” she said. She had a teeny-tiny hamster-size baby who wasn’t breathing.
The farmer took it and started slapping it and gave a few puffs in its teeny-tiny mouth.
“Where is the syringe? Get the syringe!” barked Lori, who had gone into ER mode.
I wonder who she is talking to, wondered the farmer, continuing with baby goat CPR. Lori found the syringe herself and started suctioning fluids out of the baby’s mouth. Eventually the teeny-tiny hamster-size baby started sneezing and coughing.
A few minutes later the farmer flipped the baby over, sure this one must be a doeling.
No indeed. Triplet bucks. For the first couple of days the tiny baby was called PeeWee and Squirt and “the little guy” and Hamster and Gerbil.
Then Wendy Webster came over one day and she said his name was Stuart, Stuart Little, and it turned out that really was his name. His head shoots up every morning when he hears it. He is still tiny but each day he tries to double in size by drinking more milk than you would ever possibly imagine such a small body could hold.
He may be small, but he is a Soprano.
Well Winnie as you know is a member of the Soprano Family of Lamanchas. Like Ronny, she is a Brandy daughter, and all the Brandy daughters are professional goats.
This means that they are not amateurs. They do everything according to the Guidelines and Bylaws of the Professional Dairy Goat Association. That includes kidding.
So after giving the traditional foghorn bellow signaling the start of kidding, Winnie went through the PDGA kidding checklist, which goes like this:
1. Site prep: not to exceed 20 minutes. (Includes circling, arranging straw, nesting, pawing, examining water bucket, hollering for an attendant.)
2. Preliminary test pushing: not to exceed 20 minutes. (Includes getting up and down, open-mouth breathing, warm-up pushing from comfortable sternally recumbent position, hollering for an attendant as necessary).
3. Moderate pushing: not to exceed 20 minutes. (Includes stretching exercises, pawing as necessary, looking behind you to make sure you didn’t accidentally kid already, pushing from lying-flat-on-your-side position, muffled or silent screams optional).
4. Serious pushing: not to exceed 10 minutes, recumbent or standing position as suits the mission. Push with all your muscles and scream if you feel like it. Once the head is through, give the trademark “Soprano” wiggle to squirt the first kid all the way out.
5. Break for grain, cookies, and warm water: not to exceed 10 minutes. Relax a little, then repeat steps 4 and 5 for each subsequent kid.
All the steps were completed on schedule, producing two strapping buck kids. The farmer bounced Winnie and did not feel any more kids.
“Is that all?” said Lori, when the second buckling came inside to the baby nursery.
“Yes I think so,” said the farmer.
“Oh really,” said Lori, and went out to the barn while the farmer started the two bucklings. In a few minutes (not exceeding ten) Lori came back in with a tiny bundle and began barking orders. “This one needs help,” she said. She had a teeny-tiny hamster-size baby who wasn’t breathing.
The farmer took it and started slapping it and gave a few puffs in its teeny-tiny mouth.
“Where is the syringe? Get the syringe!” barked Lori, who had gone into ER mode.
I wonder who she is talking to, wondered the farmer, continuing with baby goat CPR. Lori found the syringe herself and started suctioning fluids out of the baby’s mouth. Eventually the teeny-tiny hamster-size baby started sneezing and coughing.
A few minutes later the farmer flipped the baby over, sure this one must be a doeling.
No indeed. Triplet bucks. For the first couple of days the tiny baby was called PeeWee and Squirt and “the little guy” and Hamster and Gerbil.
Then Wendy Webster came over one day and she said his name was Stuart, Stuart Little, and it turned out that really was his name. His head shoots up every morning when he hears it. He is still tiny but each day he tries to double in size by drinking more milk than you would ever possibly imagine such a small body could hold.
He may be small, but he is a Soprano.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Accidental Tourists
The first part of this story is really boring so I am going to skip to the middle. This means you will have to fill in Chapter One on your own.
…Just then, the screaming started.
“Goodbye now, Greg,” the farmer said to Greg, who was in the middle of a story about the price of alfalfa, usually a riveting topic. The farmer hung up the phone.
In the barn using keen powers of observation the farmer noticed something amiss. One of the dry yearlings had a pair of tiny feet sticking out of her rear end. She was screaming bloody murder, for obvious reasons. You would too.
(timeout for a goat glossary entry) dry yearling: an unbred doe kid from the previous year.
“My goodness,” said the farmer, and ushered the yearling to the kidding stall. Not a moment too soon. The kidding stall had been prepared for Winnie (bago) who was overdue to kid and looking like the GoodYear Blimp but, much like the US Postal Service in these parts, making no attempt to deliver her packages.
Out popped a gigantic and very beautiful doe kid.
“My goodness,” said the farmer, inspecting her for any family traits which might give a clue as to her parentage on the sire’s side. None were readily apparent.
“This one will have to be DNA’d,” said the farmer mournfully. DNA services are useful but not free. The accidental doe kid was so pretty that the farmer put the pink sweater on her. When it comes to baby goats, this is like the yellow jersey of the Tour de France. Some years no one even gets to wear it.
The farmer got everyone settled for the night and put another “dry” yearling in the stall for company. The second “dry” yearling was friends with the first and they often did things together. Luckily they do not have a Facebook page because I shudder to think what would be on it.
Anyway, the second “dry” yearling was known to be bred but it was not known how this happened. The farmer wondered if possibly the dry yearling had been bred and it not marked on the chart, although this had never happened before. In any case based on appearances she had been penciled due at the end of April.
The farmer went to bed, neglecting to remember that the two dry yearlings often did things together.
In the morning there was a faint, discouraged mewing coming from the dry yearling stall.
“My goodness,” said the farmer, peering in. It appeared that the second dry yearling had just kidded. But there was no kid in the stall.
The farmer grabbed the kidding box and some rubber gloves and some towels and examined the dry yearling thoroughly, bouncing her. There did not appear to be any kids inside her.
“My goodness,” said the farmer, or perhaps more colorful language to that effect.
Again there came a distant discouraged mewing, and not from either of the dry yearlings.
The farmer looked down. There was a kickboard along one wall of the stall to prevent the goats from standing on the stall framing and pushing the plywood out. Inside this board was a three and a half inch gap. Inside this gap was a very hungry and still damp buckling, who was very good at crawling forward but who had no reverse gear.
“This one will not have to be DNA’d,” said the farmer happily, since he would be a wether and wouldn’t need any papers.
The farmer settled the new new baby in with old new baby and returned to the barn, where Winnie (bago) gave the traditional foghorn bellow signaling that she was ready to kid.
…to be continued.
…Just then, the screaming started.
“Goodbye now, Greg,” the farmer said to Greg, who was in the middle of a story about the price of alfalfa, usually a riveting topic. The farmer hung up the phone.
In the barn using keen powers of observation the farmer noticed something amiss. One of the dry yearlings had a pair of tiny feet sticking out of her rear end. She was screaming bloody murder, for obvious reasons. You would too.
(timeout for a goat glossary entry) dry yearling: an unbred doe kid from the previous year.
“My goodness,” said the farmer, and ushered the yearling to the kidding stall. Not a moment too soon. The kidding stall had been prepared for Winnie (bago) who was overdue to kid and looking like the GoodYear Blimp but, much like the US Postal Service in these parts, making no attempt to deliver her packages.
Out popped a gigantic and very beautiful doe kid.
“My goodness,” said the farmer, inspecting her for any family traits which might give a clue as to her parentage on the sire’s side. None were readily apparent.
“This one will have to be DNA’d,” said the farmer mournfully. DNA services are useful but not free. The accidental doe kid was so pretty that the farmer put the pink sweater on her. When it comes to baby goats, this is like the yellow jersey of the Tour de France. Some years no one even gets to wear it.
The farmer got everyone settled for the night and put another “dry” yearling in the stall for company. The second “dry” yearling was friends with the first and they often did things together. Luckily they do not have a Facebook page because I shudder to think what would be on it.
Anyway, the second “dry” yearling was known to be bred but it was not known how this happened. The farmer wondered if possibly the dry yearling had been bred and it not marked on the chart, although this had never happened before. In any case based on appearances she had been penciled due at the end of April.
The farmer went to bed, neglecting to remember that the two dry yearlings often did things together.
In the morning there was a faint, discouraged mewing coming from the dry yearling stall.
“My goodness,” said the farmer, peering in. It appeared that the second dry yearling had just kidded. But there was no kid in the stall.
The farmer grabbed the kidding box and some rubber gloves and some towels and examined the dry yearling thoroughly, bouncing her. There did not appear to be any kids inside her.
“My goodness,” said the farmer, or perhaps more colorful language to that effect.
Again there came a distant discouraged mewing, and not from either of the dry yearlings.
The farmer looked down. There was a kickboard along one wall of the stall to prevent the goats from standing on the stall framing and pushing the plywood out. Inside this board was a three and a half inch gap. Inside this gap was a very hungry and still damp buckling, who was very good at crawling forward but who had no reverse gear.
“This one will not have to be DNA’d,” said the farmer happily, since he would be a wether and wouldn’t need any papers.
The farmer settled the new new baby in with old new baby and returned to the barn, where Winnie (bago) gave the traditional foghorn bellow signaling that she was ready to kid.
…to be continued.
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