One of Those Days, or, Everything Running Smoothly As Usual

It was one of those days.

First of all it was 12 degrees in the morning, which is too cold.

The wind had blown the roof and one of the walls off the rugrat barn, which is the sun chalet for the babies who live in the shed. They were confused when they came out of their cozy shed, but that is not unusual. They looked at each other cautiously, to see if the others were also surprised. Their expressions said: is it just me? Or did this building used to have a top part? And a wall in the back?

The consensus was inconclusive. After all, it is certainly possible that some of the things we take for granted never even existed. But maybe they did. Anyway, the rugrats pressed on gamely, accepting the new reality.

Zut Alors perched on her own tiny ice rink - the frozen-solid water bucket - to mull things over.

The farmer put a special coat on Wendell to go out for his six second piddle because it was so cold. It was a very stylish coat that the farmer's French Bulldog used to wear, black and sleek with a fake-fur leopard-spotted collar. Very European.

"Do not lose that coat, Wendell," the farmer instructed. Wendell zipped outside and was back scratching at the door in six seconds. Without the coat.

So that was how the day started and from there things just got worse, with the farmer spending most of the day toting water in buckets and chopping wood by hand, and trying to make cheese even though it was way too cold for the cheese to drain properly.

The big brown truck had a dead battery. The little brown truck had a dead battery too. Because it was 12 degrees. The farmer was also getting a dead battery, right around dusk. Which comes at around 3:30 or so these days.

Then suddenly to enliven things, a water pipe under the porch burst. Water gushed merrily under the house into the crawl space. The farmer huffed down to the wellhouse and shut off all the water. There is a lot of water here, water to the house and the barn and the dairy and the cottage and the greenhouse and all the outside taps, most of which were covered with a foot of pipe wrap anyway and completely unusable.

Then the farmer crawled under the house, where it was pitch dark by now, and where the previously gushed water was freezing fast into little ice puddles which took a lot of the fun out of crawling around in the dark under a house in 12 degree weather. The farmer was looking for the water shutoff so that just the house could be shut off and the cottage and barn and so on turned back on.

Because it's nice to have a little water now and then. You can't make tea without it.

The farmer couldn't find the water shutoff and so crawled back out to get a flashlight and to call the neighbor who is a plumber. First the farmer tried to go on the Internet to look up the neighbor plumber's number, but of course the internet wasn't working, it hardly ever does. On the plus side, the phone wasn't working either, so it didn't matter that much.

The farmer went back outside to use the cellphone to call another neighbor to ask the other neighbor to call back with the number for first neighbor, the plumber neighbor. Then went to examine the burst pipe and collect some good flashlights, because if you crawl under a frozen house with just one flashlight it is a dead certainty that the battery in it will expire as soon as you get within three feet of the water shutoff.

Before that was even finished the second neighbor pulled in the driveway with a full set of flashlights and crawled under the house and shut off the water. It was agreed that the burst pipe could probably be fixed pretty easily, and that all in all things could have been worse, but that the pipe fixing would best be left until after a couple of days of thawing.

Then finally the farmer came out to feed everyone in the pitch dark, two hours later than we were all supposed to be fed.

All things considered, everyone politely pretended that everything was on schedule and running smoothly.

Sometimes that is the best policy.

Big Orange Milk

The farmer started getting wild-eyed again as Jammies drip-dropped back down in production. Big Orange was ushered in to be the farmer's personal milker, and her milk was pronounced pretty good.

"But she is no Jammies."

You might think a comment like that would hurt Big Orange's feelings but not one bit. Her goal in life is to stay under the radar.

The temperature crashed down into the 20s which meant all the outside water had to be turned off. This caused a lot of cursing with water being schlepped around in buckets. Wendell retired to his couch cushion, only hurtling outside under duress to pee on the truck tires. Then dashing back into the house. He has perfected the six second sub-zero piddle.

Peaches of course got to wear Baby Belle's blue jacket which had been retired "forever" (six months) because Peaches is very sensitive to cold. Meaning that she forgot to grow her fur out because she is only half Nigerian.

Two visiting lady goats came over for the purpose of getting to know Cowboy, my father. After the introductions Cowboy made a few half-hearted attempts at romance, but one of the visiting ladies was a big red Nubian and before long she was chasing him all around the buck pen, with her little sidekick bringing up the rear, in a festive Yuletide parade.

He fled energetically.

You know what they say. Cold hooves, warm heart.

Not So Cold Turkey

It has been repeatedly shown throughout history that those who dish it out cannot necessarily take it. This applies to Winnie for example who likes to think she is All That but scuttles away whimpering and twitching like Lady Macbeth if Wronny gives her the Evil Eye. And the same for Peaches the supposedly mild-mannered mini-Mancha who cannot even get a crust of sandwich bread from a tiny LaMancha baby. Since she was two weeks old Zydeco (aka Zydeco the Fearless) has stood her ground against Peaches.

Right now Peaches rules the three sad weaned boys completely by terror, a reign which certainly will end as soon as Mr. Jimmy realizes that he is already almost as tall as The Peach Fuhrer. Then Peaches will go back to cowering and wringing her hooves.

But anyway that is a roundabout way of saying that somehow primarily by sighing and moaning and producing exotic treats including Swedish Fish, some very large grapes, and a bowl of warm oatmeal with brown sugar in it, the farmer was able to get Jammies to eke out enough milk for a latte.

Meanwhile I cling grimly and milklessly to life, scraping by on orchard grass, local grass, peas, cob, maple leaves, vanilla wafers, ginger snaps, and whatever other tiny smatterings I can glean from the cruel world.

They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. Turkey, apparently, not so much.

A Dark Day

Precious Jammies came in heat and went down and got bred to Cowboy. And now the farmer is wearing a black armband and a somber expression. Because as soon as Jammies got bred she somehow managed to shut off her milk. Just like that.

No more candy milk for the farmer. No more candy lattes. Nichts, Naught, Nothing.

The farmer is on weaning.

Everyone tiptoes and whispers.

Barn Nessie

As many of you probably know, the Northwest with its deep primeval forests is home to many strange creatures. There is Sasquatch of course. And the vampires of Forks.

And now there have been some chilling sightings around the farm. A medium-sized potbellied creature with four legs and a rustling eyeless paper head appeared INSIDE the barn on several recent occasions, throwing Walker the Talker into a panic. Lori was visiting and she was able to snap this photo of the creature before it burped loudly and laid down to take a nap.

Like a Moth

In this photo Melody sees a person with a camera and is drawn toward the limelight.

So Many Thanks

We must be thankful for what we have. Even if it is horrible.

So I would like to thank the rain for coming down from the sky in torrents. I would like to thank the mud for filling the barnyard. I would like to thank Jammies for conserving her milk for future generations. I would like to thank my lucky stars that I am not a turkey.

I would like to thank my fans for not hating me because I am beautiful.

I would like to thank the farmer down in Chehalis who grew the pea hay.

I would like to thank Melody for all of her preening and simpering.

I would like to thank Pinky, Jr. for not biting my tail (yet) today. I would like to thank Joy for hogging all the hay. I would like to thank my mother for the milk she used to give me that I do not get any more. I would like to thank Walker the Talker for his many incomprehensible ideas. I would like to thank Tangy for her unique swordfish show walk. I would like to thank Zydeco for giving Melody a thrashing.

I would like to thank the farmer for giving me one tiny morsel of grain so that I would not completely starve to death. I would like to thank Wendell for sleeping on a cushion all day.

I would like to thank you, whoever you are, for whatever it is you did. Thank you.

Thank you very much.

Thank you.

Jammies Rennt

Jammies the stingy mini-Mancha came in heat this morning. She stood at the fence and bawled like a calf.

"Come on Jammies," said the farmer. Off Jammies went to see Cowboy, taking her little bag of candy milk with her.

Jammies went in with Cowboy and their love came to fruition before the farmer could close the gate behind her. Jammies turned around and knocked politely at the gate.

"You are going to stay in there for a while, Jammies," said the farmer. "Just to be on the safe side."

The farmer went in the house and Jammies started running. She was almost always one step ahead of Cowboy, indicating to him quite clearly that she had gotten over her crush on him. Back and forth they ran all day, with Jammies trying to snatch mouthfuls of hay as she ran past the feeder.

I watched the little bag of milk bounce around.

I could have told Jammies how to get out of there. My Aunt Hannah Belle showed me one time.

But I guess if she wants to keep that milk for herself she can just figure it out on her own, using her keen mini-Mancha intelligence.

Got Milk? Me Neither.

As you know I explained to the farmer months ago that I did not want to go on weaning. This is where you do not get any milk. The farmer said, "fine, you are Baby Belle, Jr., so I am not going to put you on weaning."

I thought this was very sensible and civilized.

Then today my mother Belle Pepper - MY OWN MOTHER - put me on weaning! She would not give me any milk! NOT ONE DROP!

I told her PLEASE BE SENSIBLE! THE FARMER SAYS IT IS OK! I AM BABY BELLE JUNIOR!

She turned a deaf ear on me.

I said MOTHER! PLEASE BE SENSIBLE! I AM ONLY FIVE MONTHS OLD! I NEED MILK!

She turned a deaf ear on me.

I looked around and there was several others with plenty of milk they did not need, even Jammies had milk and so I said, "JAMMIES! WHAT ABOUT THAT MILK IN YOUR LITTLE BAG??!! I COULD DRINK IT FOR YOU AND YOU WOULD NOT HAVE TO CARRY IT AROUND!"

Jammies turned a deaf ear on me. Then so did Betsy, and Winnie, and Wronny, and Big Orange, and everyone else.

PLEASE! I said. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! I NEED MILK! WHAT IS WRONG WITH ALL OF YOU!

"You will get used to it," said my brother Zane Gray. "I am not even interested in milk any more."

PLEASE! I said. PLEASE!!!!

Melody

Several people keep asking me for a picture of Melody. Well I don't have one and I don't know why you would want one because she is just a little very plain whitish goat. She has a couple of drab brown patches to go with the white. Well people kept asking like she was a big movie star or something and since we don't have a camera that works I sat down and did a very good drawing of her. It is an excellent likeness of her even including the drab patches although I have to say it is by no means perfect. For one thing it does not catch the true simpering quality of her expression. She is quite a simperer. But anyway here it is and I hope you are all happy.

My New Enemy

This post is private please do not read it.


Dear Diary:

The new goat Melody has been hogging the limelight. She has been crybabying also to get more food and attention. She pretends to be cuter than me which is impossible. She is my enemy.

Snakes on a Plane, Goats Can't Even Get on a Bus

I guess this is supposed to a funny video or something, but 1) I think I might know these guys, they look like some cousins of mine and 2) what if they needed to get somewhere? Are they supposed to walk?

Goats Try to Board a Vancouver Bus

Cute?

Some people say LaMancha babies are not very cute. It is true they are not as cute as Nigerian babies. But I think they may have a vestige of cuteness, even the plain black and tan ones. This is Stuart Little, Winnie's little runt, showing off his single spot as one of the farmer's friends tries to engage him in conversation. You decide.

The Mystery of the Shrinking Gate

Something else annoying happened today. I was running to help the farmer put the grain in the buckets when suddenly I was trapped in the swing gate. Every time before this I was able to squeeze right through the gap at the end but this time for some reason I stuck fast. Obviously someone must have come into the barn at night and shortened the gap. Possibly some type of intruder architect or carpenter.

"It looks like you are stuck, Millie," the farmer pointed out helpfully.

The farmer started filling all the grain buckets without me.

"I guess you won't get any grain, Millie," the farmer said. I thought it was a very sad and tragic thing, but the farmer sounded quite chipper. I only gave one little whimper; I am a very stoic goat.

But then the farmer said, "Come on, Melody, you can help me fill the grain buckets."

And the new goat went scampering to help in a very brown-nosed fashion. So then I started bawling. Louder even than Walker the Talker. No justice, no peace.

My New Friend

Something very annoying happened.

A new goat came here.

Its name is Melody. It follows the farmer everywhere and cries when the farmer leaves.

"Isn't that cute, Millie?" the farmer asked me.

The new goat is small and white and plain and lacks magnificence, unlike me. It lacks personality and style as well. When it first got here the farmer tried putting it with Blue Umbrella. Blue Umbrella gave it a thrashing and it started crying and the farmer came and took it out.

The farmer put it in with me and the babies and my mother. My mother gave it a polite, friendly thrashing and it started crying. Just a very kindly thrashing. Then Zydeco, one of the LaMancha babies, gave it a Soprano Family thrashing and it started crying like an air raid siren, even though it is a yearling and Zydeco is only about six months old. I never really liked Zydeco before that but I can see she has some good points.

The farmer came running like there was some kind of big emergency even though everybody gets a thrashing here at some point in the day. Society is built on thrashings and the promise of thrashings. Without thrashings there would be chaos.

"What is going on?" the farmer said, and took the little goat out and then gave a lecture on The Social Fabric. Can't we all just get along, bla bla bla, and how would we like it, etc etc etc.

We couldn't go out because it was pouring. The farmer gave me a gleamy look and the next thing I knew I was being settled in a stall with the new goat.

"Millie will be your friend," the farmer said, and then went into the house. I tried to give the new goat a thrashing but I am only four months old. Then she tried to give me a thrashing but I am Baby Belle, Jr.

So now I have a new friend. And it's very annoying.

The Z Report

Well as you know this is a Z Year. Not for us Nigerians, we do not go in for that type of nonsense. But the LaMancha babies all have to have Z names and there seemed for a long time to be very slim pickings, with a lot of waffling and do-overs, even more than usual.

The final results are in, and the names are going to the registry.

Zinnia's name is not going to be Zinnia. There are way too many zinnias in a z year. Her name is going to be Zenyatta, even though she is not 17+ hands tall and isn't a very fast runner. It is just a good name for her, and she does have a white blaze on her forehead. GO ZENYATTA!!!

Pinky's name is not going to be Pinky. It is going to be Zedoary. This is a kind of ginger, and we could call her Dory if we wanted, but honestly we will probably just call her Pinky. Even though her name is now Zedoary. It doesn't really matter, because she will never know what her name is.

Pinky, Jr. is going to be called Zapricot because she bites.

Pinky, Jr's sister is going to be Zamora, which is a city in Spain that is famous for its cheeses.

Ziggy is going to be called Ziggy. She won't stand for any other name.

Jimmy (Joemma Beach) is just going to be Jimmy, she is exempt from the Z rule. And plus she is already confused about a lot of things, so why make matters worse.

Please start thinking of A names now, it took eleven months to do Z.

Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?

I have not been here that long but nonetheless I have noticed certain things. One thing I have noticed is that nothing ever stays the way it is.

Things go along and everything is fine. Everyone acts normal. The food comes fairly promptly. Nobody berries in the water bucket. The screaming is kept to a polite minimum, mostly from Walker the Talker, the world's handsomest minimancha wether, who always seems to be yelling, "I may be the world's handsomest minimancha wether, but I am PART NUBIAN!"

Anyway that is to be expected and nobody notices it any more, it is like living near an airport, after a while you can sleep through a Dreamliner taking off in your living room.

So for the last couple of weeks we have just been having normal days. Then all of a sudden all hell breaks loose and the bats shoot out of the belfry.

Today it started with Aunt Hannah Belle going into heat, finally, and performing several eye-popping maneuvers which will be documented on the Flip video camera in 18 days when she does them again as she surely will. Anyway, as fat as she is she pushed her rubber bones through the pipe gate, under the railroad tie, through the back pasture fence and back up the other side so that she could stand outside the buck pen with her fanny wiggling in a most unseemly manner.

Since Aunt Hannah Belle was in heat, Jammies went into heat too and started bawling like a calf up in the milker pasture. Even though she could fit in Aunt Hannah Belle's back pocket she couldn't even get through one gate. So she just bawled.

"I am OVER HERE!" she was bawling to the bucks.

Since the other two were in heat my own mother Belle Pepper went into heat which was very embarrassing. I followed her when she tried to run down to the buck pasture but the farmer caught us both and we got detoured into the old buck pen.

The bucks were all blubbering and running in circles.

"Can someone help me?" my mother was yelling. "Could one of you gentlemen possibly help me?"

"This is ridiculous," said the farmer. "Can you all please be quiet?"

" I can't help you, " screamed Walker the Talker, "but I am PART NUBIAN!!!"

Pinky's Lament

Just when the milkless boys had almost reached the bottom of their ocean of tears, everybody here is getting a headache because Pinky has been wailing all day long. That's because of Gracie and Joyjoy. Gracie and Joyjoy, Bertie's twins, were very lucky and got picked to go to a nice new home. That's fine except nobody read Pinky the memo.

The farmer thought maybe Gracie and Joyjoy could be snuck out while Pinky and the other LaMancha doelings - aka "the piranhas" - were distracted with hay and grape leaves. That seemed to work. Then this morning Pinky's brain caught up with reality and she started in hollering.

"Wait a minute, where is Gracie?' she has been bawling all day long. "Wasn't she just here? Gracie? Gracie? Are you behind me? Gracie?"

She wasn't that attached to Joyjoy. Or maybe she thought Gracie and Joyjoy were the same goat. Who knows.

The good news is it has been established through sophisticated experimental procedures that Pinky cannot remember anything for more than eight hours. So by dinnertime she should have forgotten about Gracie.

We are counting the hours.

One Day a Year

Fabulous Last Place Wronny is one of the farmer's pets because she never causes trouble and is absolutely silent. Even when Wronny is having her kids she hardly ever makes any noise. Once or twice if it is a gigantic buck kid with a head like a beach ball, a muted peep of dismay might tumble out. Like if you stubbed your toe at a fancy cocktail party. More likely though she would just raise one of her eyebrows, indicating extreme agitation.

This is as opposed to, say, Tangy, who would start screaming if a raindrop touched her.

To give an example of the extent of Wronny's stoicism, the farmer has been asking the grief-stricken milkless boys on weaning, "why can't you be quiet like Wronny?"

Anyway today is Wronny's one-day-a-year.

She is standing at the fenceline, in the steady rain, bellowing across the pasture like a foghorn. If this sound were recorded on CD it would outsell all the whale song tapes. It is long and mournful and endless, having been bottled up for 364 days.

"I WANT TO SEE MY BOYFRIEND!" it says.

"AS SOON AS POSSIBLE PLEASE!"

"RIGHT AWAY IF IT CAN BE ARRANGED!"

News, Old and New

Some people came last weekend to take a cheese class. It was very boring, they did not bring any treats for me.

Zane Grey and Mr. Jimmy and Franco are on 'weaning.' This is where you do not get any milk. Their sorrow is very sad. Their cries fill the air. I am thinking of writing a poem about it.

I am not on weaning because I am Baby Belle, Jr. I signalled to the farmer that I did not care to join the weaning club. Maybe next year.

Aunt Blue went on the milkstand today for the first time. Except for coming in the milk parlor through the back door, which is normally not allowed, she was a complete professional. The farmer is going to start sending the milk to the test lab again.

I am sure some of the LaManchas will get a lecture when the results come back, because Aunt Blue will have the highest butterfat as usual unless Jammies the sad-eyed minimancha is able to beat her. I am rooting for Blue because she is my aunt, although Jammies is my cousin so I may switch and root for her if she wins.

The farm store is supposed to open soon selling cheese and eggs and a few other things. But we will see if that happens, things don't always happen on schedule around here.