And In Second Place...

The Smart Money is crying in its beer again: on Tuesday night Miss Melly popped out triplet bucks, three little black ones again - another set of crybaby priests.

One, I have to say, is roaning out and may end up being cute. The others are xeroxes of last year's models. Black and white xeroxes, not a speck of color anywhere - trouble in triplicate, just like last year. Fine if you like garden variety Nigerians.

Meanwhile Hannah Belle gets bigger and bigger, and causes more and more trouble. She likes to make an entrance; I understand that.

She's my girl.

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.

T Minus Nothing

As you know, the kidding countdown started just a couple of days ago, and it was scheduled to run until February 17, the supposed due date of the three competitors, who had all been bred on the same day. The three competitors were Hannah Belle, Miss Melly, and Scouty, with the smart money favoring Hannah Belle (my daughter, aka Hannah Belle Lecter), because she never goes 150 days.

The farmer was worried about Hannah Belle because she was as big as a 747 without any of the aerodynamic advantages, and she had injured one of her feet and was not getting around very well. So Hannah Belle was being cosseted and coddled while everyone else practically had to grow their own hay.

But if you have ever been to the race track, you know that the smart money often sits alone at the bar after the ponies have all gone home, wondering how such a sure thing could go sideways in such a hurry. And as you also know from your kidding handbook, if a doe is going to have a LOT of babies, she isn't going to go 150 days either, even if she isn't Hannah Belle.

143 is plenty.

Scouty, being a professional, had read the handbook, and about two hours ago, while Hannah Belle was being spoonfed tapioca pudding or something like that, she won the pool by popping out a set of quads.

She had the first two up and dressed for school by the time the last two arrived, about five seconds apart. The second two quickly got with the program, and after a thorough all-over tongue scrubbing, followed by three or four small meals for everybody, the entire family is now napping in the honeymoon suite in the barn.

Three girls and a boy.

Martha Stewart could not have done it any better.

Congratulations to Scouty.

R Ewe Kidding Me?

We saw this story about a geep born on a German farm.

A what?

Click here.

Kid Countdown

Well the countdown is on.

The race to the first babies of the year includes the following three participants, each scheduled for the launchpad on the same day: Hannah Belle, Miss Melly, and Scouty. We hope we don't get a baby blizzard like we did one day last year.

1) My daughter Hannah Belle (ND) is huge. Last year she had a set of really beautiful triplets: Peanut, Boxcar Betty, and Goatzilla. The farmer thinks she will probably have triplets again.

2) Miss Melly (ND) is not so huge. Last year she also had triplets: Tux, Top Hat, and Turkish Delight. All three of them looked exactly like her - mostly black with white here and there. They went around in a little miniature gang causing trouble and vandalizing the hay bales. They were known on the street as The Three Little Priests.

3) Scouty (Nubian) looks like Moby Dick, and she rolls to the surface in much the same way when she gets up in the morning. For the first time ever in the history of the farm - this is quite disgraceful - we do not know who Scouty is bred to. It is either the Captain or Wrusty Nails or possibly both. In any case her kids will be miniatures. If they have blue eyes we will know where they came from. If not we won't. We expect them to be very cute whatever happens.

The date is set for the 17th of February. Today is T minus 11.

Bring it on, Ladies.

Greetings from the Black Hole

Hello everyone and greetings from inside the Logan horse trailer.

I have been sent to solitary.

Why, you may ask?

I do not agree with the decision that I should not have any kids this year and so I went down to visit my boyfriend(s). My boyfriend(s) all agreed with me that I should be allowed to have as many kids as I want and that free love must be the underpinning of any happy goat society and that they would be happy to do their part in establishing my reproductive rights if they could just squeeze through the 2 inch holes in the fence wire, which they proceeded to attempt with heartwarming enthusiasm and determination, along with true revolutionary zeal and an outright refusal to submit to the so-called laws of physics.

The farmer came down and said, "you should not be coming in heat any more, it is February," and the frog march was on. Up we went to the black (actually it's white, except for the moss growing on everything this time of year) hole. Steel door slammed shut behind me. Began working on a book of prison poetry.

No use my pointing out that the Peanut calendar was supposed to be published today and wasn't because the farmer is supposedly so busy, so how am I supposed to know what month it is?

Anyway I am in the horse trailer, where it is actually quite pleasant. All meals and VAT included, English breakfast, and so on.

We have been tagged by another blogger but unfortunately we are not allowed to play tag here because it always ends in tears.

However I can tell 7 facts about myself:

1) I was born in Walla Walla.

2) I have the prettiest goat beard in five (King, Pierce, Thurston, Mason, and Kitsap) counties.

3). I like to hike but not to backpack. If someone wants to carry my pack - a packperson is fine - I would be happy to hit the trail.

4) I like to watch TV.

5) Eo is not the boss of me.

6) I love to drink milk and will drink it from a bottle, a bucket, a pan, or anything else even though I am almost five.

7) I know how to open the kitchen door of the farmer's house.

Betsy's Big Little Friend

The farmer came out the other day to see what is always an alarming sight: the tail ends of 13 goats in the down-below pasture, all lined up at the fence, bunched together, and staring as one at something down in the gully where the creek comes along the bottom of the hill. (Actually, to be precise, the tail ends of 12 goats; I wisely jumped into the hay feeder, a much better fortified position.)

Because the creek is in a dip, the farmer couldn't see what we were looking at, so came running - or, should I say, "running," since the farmer's style of "running" lacks speed among such other things as style, grace, and dignity - down the hill. When the farmer got close enough to see over the hill, the farmer saw an extremely large coyote, possibly the largest ever seen around these parts.

The farmer "ran" back up the hill to get the gun, and came "running" back down again, even more winded, even less graceful, and at an even slower pace. Nonetheless, the coyote had not left: he stood staring boldly at us and licking his chops, like a greedy guest at a lavish wedding reception, with an expression that said "should I start with hors d'oeuvres or dessert?"

The farmer hollered for Atty all this time, and Atty finally hove into view (he only works nights) just as the farmer got the gate open to come into our pasture. Right at that moment, little orphan Betsy - who is, after all, half Nubian - broke into a friendly trot toward the gargantuan coyote. She had apparently recognized him as a former neighbor or chum from school, and was halfway down to greet him by the time the farmer "ran" in front of her and took off the safety and swung the gun into position and fired off - well, nothing.

The gun wasn't loaded. So the farmer began yelling and waving the gun overhead and "ran" closer to the coyote, now followed by Atty, and we all watched as the coyote finally, grudgingly, turned and demonstrated how running is really supposed to be done.

The coyote, which was nearly as big as a German Shepherd, turned and coursed away effortlessly in artful zigzags - they know you are going to be shooting at them - across the wetland, sometimes ducking down into the canary grass and sometimes leaping mockingly above it, streaming out a long bushy red foxlike tail behind him.

And the farmer kept yelling at him, but somewhat admiringly I think, and threatened him with seven kinds of destruction should he ever return - sentiments echoed by Atty in a much more convincing tone - and stood and watched him for several minutes, until he disappeared into the big woods.

The Big Chill

It is very cold here and the farmer is in a tizzy, trying to decide whether it is better to burst the pipes or burn the barn down with heatlamps. Sometimes it seems like these are the only kind of choices we get to make.

The other day the neighbors called with some kidding problems and the farmer went over to help. Two babies had been born and gotten chilled. Sometimes it is too cold and there is just nothing you can do. In the end, they could only save one.

If you are home alone on a freezing day and some baby goats get born, remember to do things in order and that will help.

1. Make sure the kids are breathing. If they aren't, slap them around like you mean it and puff some air into their lungs. I wouldn't ordinarily say this, but see if you can make them cry.

2. Get them WARM. A baby goat that is shivering will be okay. A baby goat that has stopped shivering will not be okay - do that one first if you have to choose. A wet baby goat that has stopped shivering is going to die soon.

3. If the kid is reasonably warm, and it's breathing, then you can worry about getting some colostrum into it. Okay?

Some farmers have a policy that animals have to stay outside as nature intended, and if they can't make it out there, then so be it. The farmer's friend came over yesterday and told a chilling story of a local sheep rancher - all the lambs are born in the pasture! How barbaric!

Luckily we don't have that policy here, but please don't tell anyone or some of the other farmers might make fun of us. Here our policy is: fleece jackets for the chilly babies and a box full of straw in front of the woodstove, with round-the-clock room service.

Just like nature really intended. Or nature wouldn't have made us so cute and adorable.

Penrose and Paula

Well, when it is nice like it is today you can almost believe that the spring will actually come. Personally, I think it will.

The spring is one of the most exciting and harrowing times of the year, because that is when the kids come. We never know what they will look like, or if they will have any trouble getting here. We hope not, because it puts everyone in a bad mood when they do.

I am not having kids this year, but two of my daughters - Hannah Belle and Blue Umbrella - are. So we know that at least some of the kids will be astonishingly beautiful.

The farmer is excited, I'm not exactly sure why, because it appears that Penrose has settled - this is what they say when you are going to have kids - on an AI breeding to a very prestigious buck. Penrose's kids will be the first AI kids born here, if in
fact they materialize. Penrose is very sneaky about her kids. When she looks like she's bred, she isn't. And when she doesn't look like she's bred, you come out one morning and a gaggle of tiny toggs has materialized out of nowhere.

But anyway, Penrose's frozen boyfriend goes all the way back to the most famous dairy goat in modern American history, the only goat ever to get a mention in Time magazine's "People" section. If you have a stack of these lying around, you can go and look up May 5, 1961.

That goat is Puritan Jon's Jennifer II, bred by Paula Sandburg (wife of poet Carl Sandburg and sister of photographer Edward Steichen), who was and is one of the most famous goat breeders - if that isn't a contradiction in terms - ever. Jennifer II, out of Paula Sandburg's legendary Chikaming Toggenburg lines, broke the all-time record for dairy goats of all breeds in 1960 by producing 5750 pounds of milk in a single year.

I am here to tell you that that is a lot of milk.

Jennifer II's record stood for decades, back in the days when the Toggs were the smallest of the dairy breeds.

But anyway the funny part is that even though Paula Sandburg was known for her Toggs and her Saanens, her favorite breed was the Nubians. Who could even guess why, probably because they didn't have Nigerians back then.

Oh well, to each his own.

Loving January

It is too bad it isn't summer because then I could catch a lot of cool delicious shade just by standing anywhere north of Scouty. She is throwing a big shadow. In fact you could just about park a car in it.

But it isn't summer, it's January, and the snow came down last night in cheerful little flakes, which I like, but now the flakes are turning to sleet, which I don't like. Because then they turn to rain, which this time of year any more rain is a little de trop, as they say in France. It justs makes more mud, and we are tired of mud, all of us, even the horses.

But we are trying to find a way to love January anyway, because the farmer's friend says if you stand around saying, " I hate this time of year, I wish spring would come," or anything like that that you might feel inclined to say on the 99th consecutive day of rain, then you are just wishing your life away.

And if you wish your life away you always get your wish.

So we are concentrating on loving January, which isn't easy, but one thing I love about January is that you never get too hot, even when your winter jacket is rich and luxurious like mine.

And another thing I love about January is that February comes right after it.

And if I come up with anything else I will let you know.

But in the meantime, it's January, and I love January, it's one of the best times of year.

Hallelujah!

Big Brownie came back from the dead, probably just for a visit, but long enough to run over to the hay barn and come back with some SWEET ALFALFA HAY!

Even I got some!

THANK YOU HENRY FORD!!!

A Brownie Study

First little Brownie, the F-150, blew its carburetor. The carburetor got fixed by the discount mechanic but now he doesn't have time to put it back in the truck. He's old and he doesn't like to work while it's raining, which should get him here sometime in May at the earliest.

Meanwhile big Brownie, the F-250, has been dying a thousand deaths. First the battery cables, then the battery, then the starter relay, and now nobody really knows what, but unfortunately Big Brownie has been being "fixed" by the free mechanic, who is even less reliable than the discount mechanic. He's the farmer's neighbor who stops by three or four times a week to break Big Brownie a little further. Then he says, "That wasn't supposed to happen," and goes to work until the next day or the day after, when he comes over and breaks something else.

So we have had to eat alfalfa PELLETS instead of actual alfalfa HAY as nature intended because pellets, unlike bales, can be transported in a Honda. Not that I get any (see previous post), all I get is a few miserly peas and a bouquet of tasteless grass hay.

On the bright side, the farmer was telling the crazy trailriding lady from over the way that the F-250 is getting much better mileage now. It used to only get 8 miles to the gallon, but now it hardly uses any gas. Since it won't start.

So that's what's happening on the sunny side of the street.

Where we don't live.

My World and Welcome to It

Well apparently it has been decided that I will not have any kids this year, which I think is a terrible mistake. My daughters Hannah Belle and Blue Umbrella will be having kids, though, so all is not lost.

It has also been decided that I am too fat, which is ridiculous, since everyone knows that winter fur adds at least ten pounds. But what can you do, you can't fight City Hall.

In other news the goat seminar is next weekend, which means that some people who want to learn about goats will be coming here to annoy us. The farmer already explained to Ayatollah Winnie that she will have to pretend to be nice for several hours, since she is one of the ones who has "volunteered" to be milked by the beginners.

Wronny and Peaches have also "volunteered" but they are nice anyway so didn't get the lecture. In other news, little orphan Betsy came back into heat - so her frozen boyfriend did not turn out to be a good swimmer. Or maybe her field goal kicking attempts on the a.i. stand produced some sort of negative whiplash effect that sent the boys in the wrong direction. Who knows. On the other hand, Penrose's frozen boyfriend looks like he might have crossed the Channel. We'll see.

So Betsy went down to see Junior, who isn't frozen, but might as well be for all the personality he has, not to mention those sad little LaMancha ears. Obviously I prefer the Captain, with his darling blue eyes and actual ears like a normal goat should have.

But anyway 2008 has been okay so far. I have my own little house - I don't like to mingle with riffraff - and so far it hasn't been too cold.

So there you have it.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Happy New Year everyone! It's going to be a good one!

Be kind to all your friends and try to help your neighbors!

Within reason, of course!

Don't take advantage of the less fortunate (Scouty)! Don't worry about the high horse, whoever is on it (Winnie) will fall off soon enough! Don't let your good looks (all my children and grandchildren) go to your head!

And eat as much as you can!

All Aboard

Well maybe you remember the mysterious case of Scouty the Nubian who always looked like a Winnebago but more recently started looking like a full-blown Greyhound Bus, one of those ones that can take two or three hundred retirees up to Canada to buy their prescription drugs at an affordable price before they toddle off behind the tweed curtain for a lovely tea at a lovely hotel to make a full day of it.

In addition Scouty has already commenced the peculiar Nubian waddle that makes it look like she is rowing a boat across the English Channel in a terrible storm when she lumbers uphill.

Scouty is looking large.

Okay well if you remember that I wonder if you might also remember the tale of Wrusty Nails' bold escape from Alcatraz, which ended with Wrusty being apprehended at the gate to the doe pasture.

It now appears that Wrusty may have been apprehended coming out rather than trying to go in to the doe pasture, as originally believed, because the farmer and Lori were discussing this morning whether Scouty would be on the list to take the pregnancy test and just then Scouty herself hove into view in a very cetacean manner, puffing laboriously.

"I don't think that will be necessary," the farmer said in a dry tone, which ought to be good news to Scouty who is not known for the caliber of her study habits.

Flower Power

I had a dream, and I don't know if it was a good dream or a bad dream. I dreamed Big Orange was a flower.

A Touching True Story

And Not By a Nose

They're on the turn, and Peanut is blazing along! The first three-quarters of a mile in 1:09 and four fifths. Peanut is widening now! He is moving like a TREMENDOUS machine! Peanut by twelve, Peanut by fourteen lengths on the turn! Big Orange is dropping back. It looks like they'll catch her today, as Boxcar Betty comes up to her now. But Peanut is all alone! He's out there almost a sixteenth of a mile away from the rest of the goats! Peanut is in a position that seems impossible to catch. He's into the stretch. Peanut leads this field by eighteen lengths, and now Boxcar Betty has taken second and Big Orange has moved back to third. They're in the stretch. Peanut has opened a twenty-two length lead! He is going to be the Kid of the Year winner! Here comes Peanut to the wire. An unbelievable, an amazing performance! He hits the finish twenty-five lengths in front! It's going to be Boxcar Betty second, Big Orange third, The Weimaraners fourth, Belle Pepper fifth, and Tubster, who looks like she had too much for breakfast to really be competitive in any type of endeavor requiring movement of any kind much less speed, in sixth place.

Possible Nubian Plot Uncovered

Well something very strange is going on. The Nubian twin sisters, Boo and Scout, have always been trouble. They are loud and greedy and pushy and these are their good points. They are not that smart, either, especially Scout. Scout is the poster child for bewilderment.

Also, for a long time, Boo would kick on the milkstand. This is a horrible crime in the dairy parlor. The peanut gallery would draw in its collective breath in horror when Boo kicked on the milkstand. The usual enticements and encouragements and swats on the behind did no good and finally Boo reaped the whirlwind for kicking on the milkstand and after that she stopped.

Now they both are good milkers, which must be one reason why the farmer keeps them. Through no fault of their own they are also pretty, and that is probably another reason. But many times the farmer would say to both of them, "why can't you be more like your mother?"

Oddly, I have never heard the farmer say that to any of my children, but I will puzzle over that later.

Their mother was Marty, one of the sweetest and saintliest Nubians of all time. Even the Nigerians liked Marty.

Well, anyway, Nubians are known to be slow maturers, unlike Nigerians, and Boo and Scout are now almost four, and something very odd and suspicious has happened.

They started acting sweet. They stand at the gate just to have their heads scratched, not wanting anything. They stay away from the door and don't try to stampede out. They come immediately when they are called. They only kick a little bit, as a courtesy, when their feet are trimmed. They jump down promptly from the milkstand and run back to the gate to be let into their stall when they are finished.

It is very very very fishy.

If anyone else were doing it, I would expect some kind of mischief afoot.

And this is the kicker: yesterday Scouty stood at the gate, rolling her head from side to side so that the farmer could scratch behind the ears and then on the topknot, the itchy spot where the horns used to be, putting on a big sleepy-face like a cat, and the farmer said, "you remind me of your mother."

Whatever it is, it's diabolical.

Candidate's Mother's Statement: Baby Belle

Everyone is getting sick of the poll. It was supposed to go through the end of the year but now it is only going through Christmas, because it is way too popular and someone out there is probably getting carpal tunnel.

The winner will be on the cover of the farm calendar for 2008. The cover is the worst picture of all to get because everyone turns it over and hangs it on the wall and never looks at it again. So fine, that's all I have to say about the poll.

Anyway, let's get back to me. In this photo I am up in the tree helping with the apple harvest. I love helping others, especially when it also helps me.

Pick one, eat one, pick one, eat one.