Goats In Mourning

Sorry to write about dark stuff in this merry season, but today is the darkest day of the year, at least in our hemisphere, so here goes.

Yesterday, the baby goats left. They went to a wonderful farm, willowmoonfarm.com, and I was fortunate to be able to place them. They were almost three months old, and more than ready to be weaned. They were taking up valuable space, drinking milk they didn't really need. They needed to go, and I rejoiced that they did.

My two remaining goats, Blossom and Virginia Slim, are anything but pleased. Blossom is the babies' mother, and I know for a fact that she was trying to wean them; I'd seen her hunkered down in a corner of the shed, hoping they couldn't get to her udder. Virginia Slim was more of a wet nurse. She's a domineering goat, but when the kids were born she could not resist them, and when they were a couple of days old I caught them nursing from her, while she stood patiently and nosed their rear-ends, just like a mother goat would.

The minute we loaded the kids into the truck, Blossom and Virginia S. began screaming, “Where are you going with those babies!” When we returned five hours later, they were still screaming. I milked them both and gave them grain, and hoped that a good night's sleep would calm them down.

Not a bit of it. This morning they greeted me with anguished cries “What did you do with the babies?” Milking and a bowl of grain didn't make a dent in their distress. “What are we going to do now that our babies are gone?” they kept saying, over and over, in a strange throaty bleating. No mother who has just deposited her first born at college could have been more upset.

These are normally almost silent goats. But boy, they aren't silent now. They are in mourning. They are weeping and wailing. They look at me insistently, as if I have the answer.

Which I do, of course. The answer is: “We who own you and take care of you are not vegans. We are not even vegetarians. Therefore, we need you to have babies every year so we can get milk and cheese. Your daughters, if they are lucky, will go on to have babies and make milk for other people. Your sons...let's not talk about what happens to boy goats. Either way, for the rest of your lives you will be separated prematurely from your children, because I cannot take care of more than a couple of goats. If we were brave and honest, we would slaughter your kids right here, and eat them, but we aren't, so we hand them over to others—the girls for milk, the boys for food. Please try to get used to this arrangement, because it's all that I can offer.”

It is night, and the goats are quiet now. I hope they are keeping each other warm. I hope they are not too unhappy. How long does it take a mother to get used to her children's absence? Tomorrow I will give Blossom and Virginia S. a good brushing. What else can I do?

Frozen Egg

Found a frozen egg in the nest last night. How did I know it was frozen? Because the contents had expanded and the shell had a beautiful thin crack running from end to end. The other eggs were fine—maybe they had been laid later in the day and hadn't had time to freeze.

My hens are Buff Orpingtons, big bosomy blondes bred to withstand cold weather. They have a heated dog dish for their water, and plenty of laying mash and leftovers. They prefer to spend their days in the goat room, scratching around in the hay and managing to find treats in there. Probably they like the goats' company, too.

The goats don't mind the cold either. They're wearing their fluffy winter coats—the babies look like little bears—and they go outside on the snow and ice. They hate the rain and mud, though. They, too, have a heated water bucket, and in the winter I add cider vinegar to their water.

The wooden shed that houses the goats and chickens is not insulated. At night I do lock everyone in, but it's more to keep the coyotes out than the cold. Both goats and chickens have a nice thick bed of hay, and the manure which drops to the bottom composts and helps to keep things warm.

In the evening, when I'm reading by the wood stove and the dogs are sprawled on the rugs, I like to think of my goats and chickens all snug in their shed for the night.

Things I Didn't Do Before The Snow

Here are my mea culpas for the 2009 gardening season. They aren't much different from the 2008 ones, and I don't hold much hope for the 2010 ones, but here goes:

I didn't tuck in the plastic mulch that was peeking out from under the pine mulch in the landscaped areas around the front of the house. It looked sloppy and unsightly and reminded me of the days when slips were wont to show under skirts. Mercifully, the snow has covered everything for the moment—kind of like putting on a coat to hide that hanging slip.

I didn't thin the apple mint, the spear mint, the orange mint or the lemon balm. Next year, they may take over the entire property. It will smell good, though.

I didn't wrap a burlap coat around the little Japanese maple, thus leaving it vulnerable to cold, wind, and deer.

I didn't put the plastic spiral wraps on the trunks of the baby apple trees, thus leaving them vulnerable to rabbits and who knows what else that will dine on their bark one of these nights while I'm asleep.

I didn't spread the extra compost that we dumped out on the field. The snow has covered that as well.

I didn't harvest the last of the chard, although if I dug around I might still find some under the snow.

Ditto for the kale, which is still sticking up bravely through the snow, like miniature palm trees sticking out of desert sand. I should crash my way through the ice-crusted snow to the garden and see if it is still usable. I read somewhere that heavy frost makes kale sweeter. If so, our kale should be pure sugar by now.

I didn't sell the baby goats, Alpha and Omega. They are getting big and taking up a lot of space and drinking milk that they no longer need. They are adorable, but I need to find them a home asap. Placing them in a caring home far outweighs my desire to get a price commensurate with their impressive dairy pedigrees. Perhaps I need to pray to Saint Isidore, patron saint of farmers, to help me find them a family.

My Green Vermont Mornings

The only way I can get out of bed when the alarm rings at seven is to make a solemn promise to myself that I will come back to bed as soon as “everybody” is taken care of.

I let Bisou out of her crate, pull a turtleneck over my pajamas, thrust my bare feet into clogs, and go downstairs to let the dogs out. While they do their morning rituals I fill a big bucket with water and a dollop of cider vinegar for the goats, and heat a cup of water for washing udders. I let the dogs inside, and they act as if they hadn't seen me, or each other, for ten years. I try to act excited to see them too.

When we built our goat shed, we attached it to the back of our attached garage, so I have the luxury of doing chores without having to step on bare ground, which makes me nonchalant about what I wear for morning milking. Today, with the thermometer at 18 F and the wind howling, I threw the barn coat over my sweater and pajamas and sallied forth hatless, sockless, and gloveless. The goats were calling, and I was in a hurry.

In the milking room, I put grain on the milking stand and let Virginia Slim in, then let the little does out of their bedroom so they could have some restorative sucks out of their mother, Blossom. I cleaned Virginia Slim's udder, dried it, and milked her, then ushered her out and let Blossom in. When I'd milked her, I filled the hay feeder, opened the door to the yard, threw out the old water, poured in the new. Then I went into the chickens' room, checked that they had water and feed for the day, and opened their little trap door so they could rush next door to visit the goats.

My fingers had stayed mobile during the milking thanks to the warmth of the udders, but by the time I went back to the house, they felt like frozen twigs. And while I peeled off my coat and strained the milk those lines by Shakespeare kept running through my mind:

When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail....

I fed the dogs their breakfast: half kibble, half the home-cooked melange that I know will keep them healthy and alive forever. While they ate, I heated water for my tea, poured cereal into a bowl, and added the rich, sweet, organic, fabulous milk from my own adorable goats which will keep me healthy and alive forever.

But before I could eat, the dogs had to be let out again, and I had to watch to make sure than Bisou did her thing despite the howling wind and icy snow. While I watched, I refilled their water bowl, and sprayed the rosemary bush and the scented geranium plants lest they dry out from the stove heat.

All this water made me realize (Reader, I know that this may be too much information, but I think it is a telling touch) that I had not been to the bathroom since the night before....

The dogs safely inside, I sorted out my daily vitamins, ate my cereal and drank my tea. Now, I thought, I can go back to bed. First, however, I gave Lexi her arthritis meds in a spoonful of peanut butter, then brushed her teeth, and brushed Wolfie's teeth, and Bisou's, and reminded myself that they all needed to have their nails cut SOON and their coats brushed.

Plus, before going upstairs and plunging back into bed, I needed to think about dinner, and go down to the basement and bring up whatever was needed from the freezer, and I should also start defrosting the next batch of homemade melange for the dogs.

Then Bisou had to go out again.

By the time I got upstairs and brushed my teeth and checked my e-mail, it was practically lunchtime. I decided to just get on with the day, and maybe take an afternoon nap.

Naps, as everybody knows, will keep you healthy and alive forever.

Goat On A Date

Sweet Alsiki went on a date today. This was not a spur-of-the-moment thing, but a highly orchestrated affair, like the betrothal of a Renaissance princess. Alsiki is not the most beautiful of my goats, but she is the one people fall in love with. She'll come and stand next to you, so quietly and unobtrusively that next thing you know you've got your arms around her and she's lying on your lap. She is subtly colored, cream and white, and she wears “goat jewelry,” a pair of little bell-like wattles that hang from her neck.

The date began with a hormone shot. At almost twenty months old, the biological clock is in full swing for Alsiki. But she had never given overt signs of heat—no tail wagging, no restlessness, no crying out in the night for her phantom lover, no pinkness or swelling or discharge in the relevant parts. To get things rolling, we gave her an injection that would bring her into heat within three to seven days.

Alsiki got her shot on Friday, and this morning we had an appointment with a buck at the farm where she was born, a couple of hours' drive from where we live (good breeders of Nigerian Dwarf goats are few and far between. Here is a great one: www.willowmoonfarm.com).

I thought that it might help if Alsiki looked her best. I put her on the milking stand and she let me pick up each of foot and cut the overgrown parts of the hoof with nary a kick or a struggle. (By contrast, Virginia Slim, and especially Blossom, left me sweating and panting for breath as well as covered in hoof parings.)

I thought I should also give Alsiki a good brushing. But there's no such thing as brushing a single goat. When they see me with the brush, my goats get as close to me as they can and stand quietly for as long as I am willing to brush. This has an amazing hypnotic effect, not just on them, but on me. By the time I'm done, I feel as if I've just undergone a powerful meditative experience.

We hoisted the made-over Alsiki into the dog crate in the back of the truck, and took off for the frozen north. She was not giving any signs of heat. It might take days for the shot to take effect, but the breeder had kindly offered to keep her until she did go into heat, so we weren't worried about making the trip in vain.

It was a cold, gray day, the woods and fields covered with snow, the bare trees outlined in black, like you see in paintings by Brueghel. At the farm, we decanted Alsiki into a stall and the breeder led in the boyfriend—a beautiful young buck, about Alsiki's age, black and white with a swishy mane along his back that gave him the look of a Colobus monkey. (You'll be glad to know that Nigerian Dwarf bucks, whether because of their small size, or because it's a gift of the fairies, give off nowhere near the stink of “regular” bucks during rutting season.)

The boyfriend tiptoed in, shaking his mane, tactfully keeping his distance, lifting his upper lip and darting his tongue to determine how things stood.
As I said, until that moment, there had been no signs that Alsiki was even remotely in the mood. “Strange,” I said, observing the low-key scene, “she's not trying to get away from him.” (I'd seen does who were just not quite in the mood climb up walls to get away from a buck.)

And as I finished the sentence, the boyfriend mounted and the deed was done. Just like that. Not only had Alsiki been in heat, she'd been in “standing” heat, which is as hot as a goat can get. But, discreet as ever, she hadn't wanted to make a fuss.

The boyfriend retreated, Alsiki continued to stand, in case there was more to come. The boyfriend nickered and hung about near the relevant parts. He capered and curled his lip, stuck out his tongue. Alsiki stood politely, waiting for him to recover. We knew he would, so, leaving them to their privacy, we all went out to lunch.

The Milkmaid's Report

After the milk-dumping episode, I couldn't stop thinking about ways to fix the situation with Blossom. I decided to milk her three times a day to get her used to the process. That didn't work, however—she was fine on the milking stand at noon and in the evening, but gave only a tablespoon of milk each time, since the babies had been nursing. In the morning, she turned into the milking monster I described in my earlier post.

My practical-minded husband viewed this as another in the long list of goat challenges I have asked him to solve over the years. (Some challenges he has solved: installing a sliding lock so the goats can't get into the chicken house; hanging the mineral feeder so the goats can't knock it over, and so on.) He immediately came up with a system of hobbles (using old belts) that would keep Blossom's hind legs on the floor of the milking stand. But I didn't want Blossom to stand for milking because she had to. I wanted her to stand because she wanted to.

mrb suggested in a comment that Blossom was upset because she'd been separated from her babies during the night, and I agreed. The “energy” in the goat house in the mornings was frantic, with the babies squeaking for Blossom and Virginia Slim (since they nurse both of them) and the two grown goats screaming because they wanted to get to the babies.

Last night, I didn't separate the babies from the big goats. When I checked on them before going to bed, they were all snuggled together against the cold, a peaceful scene. This morning, before light, I went out with my milk pail and put the just-awakened Blossom on the stand. Surprise! She stood there and ate grain, and let me milk her without a peep or a kick. Her udder wasn't quite as full as if I'd taken the babies away at night, but they don't nurse much in the dark, so I got a respectable amount of milk.

The trick, then, is for me to get to the goats before they wake up—but that, given Bisou's need for a bathroom break in the wee hours, should not be a problem.

Staying awake the rest of the day is another story.

Petting Zoo

The still-unnamed baby goats were born two weeks ago today, and since then hardly a day has gone by without someone coming over to meet them, and the puppy Bisou.

Women have come, and children, and grown men too. The ritual is as follows: I usher them into the garage, through the tiny door (watch your head!) into the milking room, and into the goat sanctuary. I bend down and pick up the babies and hand one to each visitor.

The goat kids are used to this, and only thrash and bleat if the visitor neglects to support their hind quarters. Otherwise they sit quietly in the (to them) stranger's arms, grunting softly and smelling of hay. The humans' reaction is more intense, and pretty much identical across genders and ages: people coo and moan and speak in high-pitched voices, and bury their noses in the soft fur. They stand there and hold those babies against their chest and get a far-away look in their eyes. You can tell that something deep in their DNA is being addressed by those little goats.

When they recover I lead them out and bring Bisou to meet them, and the same scenario, with minor variations, ensues. The variations are due to Bisou's being way more wiggly than the goats, and her lack of hesitation to lick people's faces and bite their fingers with her needle teeth. So she gets put down more quickly. But the talk and the voice tones with which she is addressed are essentially the same.

After the animal babies are put away, my friends thank me for letting them come. “We're so glad you're doing this,” they say, “so we can enjoy it. It must be a lot of work!”

And it is.

It Takes A Village

Like chickens, wolves, and humans, groups of goats have definite hierarchies, and how these hierarchies are established is not usually a pretty sight.

My two goats, Blossom and Alsiki, dwelt in harmony until I introduced Virginia Slim into the herd. The little angels immediately attacked the newcomer, butting her away from food, giving her no peace and even, to my horror, biting her udder.

Goat books and goat people advise the novice goatherd to leave the girls alone to work things out on their own. The only positive action one can take is to ensure that all goats in one's possession have been dehorned. Hard though it was, therefore, I adopted a laissez faire attitude towards my herd of three.

Next thing I knew, the tables had turned and the elegant and refined Virginia Slim was slamming into the scruffier but sweet-tempered Alsiki, keeping her away from the hay feeder, from the grain dish, and from me at petting time. I felt sorry for Alsiki, but she seemed none the worse for wear and I was relieved that at least pregnant Blossom was escaping Virginia Slim's wrath.

Goatherds with large facilities segregate new mothers and their babies for a couple of weeks in maternity wards, until the babies are smart and agile enough to keep out of the way of the other goats. But as I only have one space for my goats; there was no question of isolating Blossom and the twins.

During the first couple of days after the birth, I watched to see how Virginia Slim and Alsiki acted, and was glad to see that, if a kid stood between them and the hay feeder, they would merely nudge it aside with their muzzle. There was no butting, no cornering. Even Slim's aggression towards Alsiki seemed to have diminished.

Meanwhile the babies prospered. They had round, milk-filled bellies every time I checked, and by the end of their first week had started running around and leaping into the air like crickets.

At about this time, I noticed that Slim's milk production was decreasing, but I figured it had to do with the onset of cold weather, or the upheaval caused by the birth. I was right about the latter, but not in the way I had envisioned: Slim was letting the babies nurse at her udder.

I have heard of ewes trying to steal lambs from other ewes. And females of various species will sometimes adopt babies whose mothers have rejected them. But Blossom is the most attentive of mother; she has plenty of milk; and I have seen no sign of Slim trying to keep the babies away from her. No, Slim simply stands there, and if one of the kids walks up and starts nuzzling her udder she gets this soft look in her eyes and goes to work cleaning under the baby's tail while it sucks. And Blossom doesn't seem to mind a bit.

I have no idea why my goats are acting this way. But I like to think that it is because they are at peace, because Slim finds the babies irresistible (who wouldn't?) and Blossom is secure enough in her parenting to let her share in their upbringing.

While this is not exactly a case of the lion lying down with the lamb, I hope that I have played a role in this sudden goat harmony, that maybe all that singing and talking and brushing have not been in vain, and that I'm giving my goats a measure of the peace and serenity that their presence always gives me.

Birth Of A Goat, Continued

12:45 a.m. I was sitting inside cuddling Bisou, with the baby monitor next to me, and at 11:30 heard an atypical sound. Not loud, not urgent, just atypical. Popped Bisou in her crate, rushed to the barn, and there was Blossom, lying down, with a baby half out of her.
I slid a paper feed bag under the baby, who was literally swimming in, you know, birth goo, and moved her around to Blossom's face, so they could meet.

Blossom instantly went into high gear, licking this weird little thing--I'm not sure she knew quite what it was, but she knew what she was supposed to do—and talking, talking, talking. And the baby, the minute I wiped its face off, started talking, talking, talking back in this incredibly high-pitched little voice. As soon as it was somewhat dry, I picked it up and checked the important bits—a doe! A lovely reddish brown like her mother, with a white spot on top of her head and more white on her belly, her long ears still folded longitudinally as a space-saving measure.

Next thing I know, Blossom lies down again, gives the slightest grunt, and out slides little sister. Twin does! I take this as a sign of favor from the universe. Little sister is really little, also brown with white spots, also gooey and in dire need of cleanup. Poor Blossom, now she's got two talking babies, one in front, one in back, and she goes from one to the other, urgently licking, licking, and talking, talking.

Now I have a couple of jobs to do: dip the cords and navels in iodine, and see that the babies get colostrum WITHIN 60 MINUTES OF BIRTH. This is very important, and heaven help me if I don't get it right.

The iodine dip goes pretty well, except for dark brown spots all over my clothes. Getting the babies to nurse is another story. It is a wonder to me that the species manages to survive at all. Here are two wobbly babies, crying and muttering and falling over, and a mother who is obsessed with cleanliness and has no idea what that object that has been growing ever larger between her hind legs is for.

The clock is ticking, and I'll have to help. I pick up the first baby, who screams bloody murder, and gently steer her towards the udder. She has no idea what the object between her mother's hind legs is for either, but she knows she's supposed to be looking for something. I hold a teat in one hand and move the baby towards it, but she shrieks, and Blossom quickly turns around to see what is wrong, thus moving the udder completely out of reach.

This goes on for quite some time. Finally I give up (temporarily) on baby #1 and pick up little sister, who has the sense to keep quiet and, miracle of miracles, latches on right away and takes a few drops of colostrum. Weak with relief, I try again with baby #1, who again shrieks and refuses to latch on. Meanwhile Blossom is intent on making sure her daughters are spotless. Who cares about food when there's a mess to be cleaned up?

I go to the kitchen and fill a small bucket with warm water and pour molasses into it—the post-partum pick-me-up par excellence. While Blossom imbibes this, my husband puts down the camera and sneaks baby #1 to the udder, and she too has a little drink. Whew!

We carry away the wet towels, the iodine, the just-in-case jar of vaseline. We make sure that each little doe has a second drink, and then we leave the herd in peace.


A word about sizes. I am not a tall person, but Blossom doesn't even come up to my knees. We did not have the presence of mind to weigh the babies at birth, but on average Nigerian Dwarf kids weigh two pounds. Baby #1 may weigh that much, but little sister feels about as heavy as a silk scarf.

I'll be looking for names for these two—send suggestions!

Birth Of A Goat

6:30 p.m. I'm sitting on the milking stand, waiting for Blossom to have her babies. The goats are not in the milking room or they'd be typing right along with me. They are in the stall next to the milking room, and if I stand up and peer over the partition, I can see what is going on. I do this every five minutes or so.

Right now, nothing is happening, other than Virginia Slim slamming into sweet Alsiki. For all her dainty, porcelain looks, Virginia Slim isn't very nice to Alsiki, especially when they are in an enclosed space. But this is not something I can do anything about, and is typical goat behavior.

But back to Blossom. When I came to check on her at five on this rainy evening, I thought I had proof definite that things were imminent: a small amount of mucus (the seal that keeps the babies safely inside and germs outside) was draining out of her. The first look I took at her this morning had already told me that this might be the big day. Her udder, which had grown progressively over the last six weeks was, if possible, even larger. And she seemed clingier somehow, and talkative, she who has always been a practically silent goat. But these were “soft” signs, open to over-interpretation. No way I'm imagining the discharge, though.

I'm far from an experienced goat obstetrician. In the three goat periods in my life, I've seen fewer than ten births, and they've all gone swimmingly. So who knows, I may be here all night, waiting for the blessed event. One disconcerting sign is that goats usually stop eating when they go into labor. Blossom, on the other hand, hasn't stopped eating all evening. She's pulling great wads of hay non-stop out of the feeder, and she polished off her grain.

7 p.m. More discharge, and she's talking, making little strangled sounds that mean—what? That she's worried, looking for her babies, in pain? Giving birth makes goats talkative for the rest of their lives. They talk while they're giving birth, they talk to their babies after they're born, they talk when they need to be milked, they talk because the sun is out or because they have just caught sight of you behind the kitchen window.

This milking stand sure is hard to sit on. ..in case you're wondering, it is my plan to chronicle this event as it is happening, as faithfully as I can. I won't be taking pictures, though.

How many babies will Blossom have? Goats usually have two, but they can have one, or as many as four. Blossom is a Nigerian Dwarf—a miniature dairy breed—and these teensy goats often have triplets or quads. Blossom is as wide as she is tall right now, but she might just have one large kid...and that can make for a difficult birth, especially for a first-time mother. But let's not think about that.

I could be thinking about what I do want Blossom to have. My first impulse is to say, “it makes no difference, as long as it's healthy,” the standard answer of parents-to-be in pre-sonogram days.

In the world of animal husbandry, people devoutly wish for females: heifers, doelings, ewe lambs, pullets. They will give milk, eggs, babies. Bull calves, buck kids, rams and roosters can only give...meat (something for ovo-lacto vegetarians—of whom I was one myself—to keep in mind). Oh, yes, and they give sperm, too. But thanks to Nature's bizarre design, and to a technology that can collect semen and fly it anywhere, a single bull could theoretically supply enough sperm to impregnate every dairy cow in America. But the sex ratio of farm animals at birth is the same as for humans, roughly half males and half females. So the little boy animals get eaten.

Theoretically, then, I should be wishing for does. But I'm not trying to increase the size of my herd—the three does I have now are actually one too many. And I don't want lots more milk, thank you very much. In my dairy operation, smallness in size and number is key. If Blossom has a doeling or two, I will sell them. But does are considerably more expensive than bucks, and so perhaps harder to place. I do NOT want to get attached to these little animals. It's a slippery slope, and one can end up with a hundred goats in no time at all. Bucklings are often bought for pets, or as companions for horses or donkeys. Or for meat....

8:30 p.m. No further developments. Blossom is lying down, chewing her cud. This could be a long night. I'm going to cancel tomorrow morning's herding lesson. Wolfie will be disappointed, but I will need some sleep.

It is now raining cats and dogs, and I couldn't be more grateful that we when we built our little barn we attached it to the back of our attached garage, so I can go from house to barn without getting wet. THIS is real luxury.

9:30 p.m. Change of plans. It's clear that Blossom is not in active labor. I don't need to stay in the barn all evening, but I will sleep fully clothed on the couch downstairs tonight, with the baby monitor by my side. I've given all three goats what they love most in the world, a good brushing, and will leave them to get some sleep.

Now I'm going to check on the puppy Bisou, whom my spouse has been kindly babysitting all evening, and I'll post again as developments occur.

Man Does Not Live By Bread Alone...

...nor critters by kibble, hay, grain, laying mash, or fish pellets.

I spend a good deal of time administering all these things, and then cleaning up the resulting poop. But I spend just as much, if not more, time seeing to the emotional needs of the animals around here, as follows:

1. Wolfie. Wolfie has an emotional need to have fun—he's a young dog—and because he's a dog, fun and work are the same thing (dogs are lucky that way). Hence the herding lessons, and the insane circus that passes for herding practice when I'm on my own with him and the goats.

2. Lexi. She has always been an independent soul, but every once in a while she limps up to me and pushes her gray muzzle against my knees and I know she needs more than the home-cooked meals I feed her. It's hard for her to move, because of her galloping arthritis, so she mostly lies around quietly and will not, if I'm on the couch reading, come up and try to get me to play, as Wolfie does. I have to remind myself, a couple of times a day, to find her and pet her and ask how she's feeling.

3. The goats. They have more emotional needs than a corps de ballet. Virginia Slim, the newcomer, is settling in, but still won't eat her grain unless I'm there talking to her—this is while she's on the milking stand and I've finished milking. Meanwhile, Blossom and Alsiki, who have gobbled down their grain, are wondering why nobody is petting them, so I have to see to that. With all this goat gruntling, it takes me a long time to get back to the house with the milk.

Every few days, I give the goats a good brushing, which they love. They close their eyes and go into a trance, but they insist on being brushed all at the same time. So I go from goat to goat, brushing a hip here, a shoulder there, while my other hand scratches a head here, a neck there. By the time we're done, I'm in a trance as well.

4. The chickens. Do they have emotional needs? As many as you or I. They love to be talked to in low, soothing tones. They love it if I move around them slowly. If I sit down among them they will come up and start a conversation. I haven't done enough sitting among chickens lately. Must remedy that.

5. The fish. My two Shubunkin gold fish don't have emotional needs. They have emotional problems. They've been in my tub garden for what, a month now, and they still spend their time hidden behind some stones I provided for their privacy. Every day I cast a few pellets on the water, calling their names, and...nothing. Later, when they think I've gone away, they emerge out of the murk and snap up the food, then disappear again. I realize that they're probably like this because they have unmet emotional needs, but how do you make a fish happy?

Goat Politics, Continued

I am happy to report that things have calmed down considerably in the goat shed. Virginia Slim cries out only when she hears my voice, which I take to mean that she's bonded to me. And Blossom and Alsiki, have abandoned their nasty ways and only butt her occasionally, to remind her that she's the newcomer.

Did I mention that Virginia Slim doesn't like to be milked? Let me make it clear that I was thoroughly forewarned about this by Virginia Slim's former owner. I could have bought a solid, stolid older doe with a proven record and a patient disposition. Instead, I fell in love with Virginia Slim's good looks, and made brave statements about my patience and my ability to sing any goat into submission.

Did I mention that Virginia Slim is kind of wild and doesn't like to be caught for milking purposes? I was warned about this too, as I made eyes at her.

According to Judeo/Christian tradition, I should be punished for my fixation on mere externals by being saddled with an ungovernable, unmilkable goat. But guess what—Virginia Slim is becoming tamer, sweeter, more milkable by the day. This is not without effort on my part, of course.

If I want her to come inside the shed so I can lead her to the milking room I first have to offer grain to Blossom and Alsiki so they will come into the shed. Since Virginia Slim cannot bear to be separated from them, she comes into the shed as well. I then take her by the collar and lead her to the milking room, where she hops up on the milking bench. There is a stanchion there, and a dish of grain.

I fasten the stanchion and she takes a couple of distracted mouthfuls of grain. I wash her udder in warm water, dry it with a soft towel. Then I squeeze her teats, one after the other, making sure no milk goes back up into the udder. Swish, swish...for maybe a minute or two, all goes well.

But then she realizes, to her horror, that she's being milked. She stops eating, and she sits down. I try to hold her up with one hand while milking with the other. I grab her right hind leg to keep it out of the pail. It's especially important to get the last drops of milk out, or the body will get the signal that it can cut down on production. And it's those last drops that are the hardest, for both of us.

For now, I'm milking her three times a day, as opposed to the usual two. I'm doing this to keep the milking sessions short and pleasant, to get her to eat more grain, and to encourage her body to keep producing. And to get both of us used to each other in this strangely intimate business of milking.

And every drop of that thick, sweet, lovely milk is worth the effort. Right now my first batch of rosemary-seasoned cheese is in the press. I'll let you know how it comes out tomorrow.

Goat Politics

Two goats are a couple of goats. Three goats are a herd.

I now have a herd of goats. Yesterday we brought a third goat home. She's a milker--that means she's giving milk right now, since she “freshened” (had a baby) a couple of weeks ago. For some reason I love her name: Virginia Slim.

Why, after telling anyone who would listen, that my absolute maximum was two goats, do I now have three?

Blossom and Alsiki, if indeed they are pregnant, won't give birth until October. That meant a months-long wait for milk, and cheese, and the sweet routine of filling the grain dish, getting the goat on the milking stand, washing the udder with warm water it and drying it, leaning my head against her side and hearing the jets of milk ping against the bottom of the pail. Who could postpone such pleasures?

But now I don't have to wait, because Virginia Slim is here. She is small and refined, light-cream with white spots. And right now she's suffering. She's with strange people in a strange place; she misses her baby and her old herd; and she's going through the pangs of adjusting to the new herd.

Yes, Blossom and Alsiki, those two sweetie pies, are giving Virginia Slim a hard time. And I'm finding it very hard to watch.

I know that this is 100% normal goat behavior; that they will eventually work out who stands on what rung on the dominance ladder; that peace will reign again some day. But right now Virginia Slim is being butted and interfered with with every breath she takes. And with every breath, she lets out a pitiful “Maaaa!” that breaks my heart. (My heart healed a bit when I observed that she kept up her bleating even as she chewed mouthfuls of hay.)

The ironic thing is that, though they pester her mercilessly, Virginia Slim cannot bear to be away from Blossom and Alsiki. I took them to the field this evening, keeping Virginia Slim on a leash so she wouldn't take off for parts unknown. Every time I walked her away from the others, say to a particularly appetizing bunch of grass, she pulled me towards Blossom and Alsiki, who, the minute they got within striking distance, struck.

I didn't get my fix of pastoral calm this evening. And Virginia Slim didn't get much grazing done. After I put everybody back in the shed, and massaged and sang to them in hopes they would all relax, and gave them hay and grain and milked the little newcomer, I went into the house and realized that I was exhausted, not physically but emotionally. Goat politics do me in.

They're Back!

I'll do the last installment on Dandelion Wine tomorrow, but today we got “the girls” back from The Buck, and I can think of nothing else. We drove two and a half hours to the farm near Montpelier, and when they heard our voices Blossom and Alsiki came out and stood against the fence so we could pet them through the wires.

They look wonderful, sassy and shiny in their shorter summer coats. And they smell terrific—at least to a goat person--musky and dusky and bucky, the way goat cheese tastes when it has been left too long (for my taste). But on a live doe, the smell speaks of fertility, and rites accomplished, and babies on the way.

Only Blossom, alas, was observed in flagrantis with the buck Challenger. Alsiki, either frigid or discreet, showed no signs that the human eye could discern, though I'm still hoping that Challenger discerned something, and took action.

On the way back from the farm we stopped at a pet store to buy a couple of fish for our little tub garden. They were out of garden-variety goldfish, so we bought a couple of Shubunkin goldfish, small and spotted and supposed to do fine in an outdoor pond. They will have to be brought inside after freezing weather sets in, but that is a long time away. I floated their plastic bag in the tub for half an hour, then released them into their new home. I made them a hiding place out of an old flower pot. Tomorrow I will get them a water plant or two. I want them to be happy.

Blossom and Alsiki glommed onto their hay and grain after the long trip, and at dusk I led them out into the field, along with the dogs, where the grass is almost as tall as the goats. I put Wolfie and myself on a down-stay while Lexi went off looking for deer poop. The goats nibbled, and the sun began to set, and Wolfie kept his eye on them every minute. To relax him and them I sang Catalan folk songs, over and over, until I was almost asleep. The goats stayed close by, and the wood thrush played its flute in the woods.

When I put the dogs in the house, the goats insisted in going into their barn. So I went in and closed the door against coyotes and God-knows-what, and sat with them and brushed them until we were all in a trance. I eventually tore myself away and came back in the house smelling of buck, feeling fulfilled.

Goatless, Alas

Blossom and Alsiki are with The Buck. We loaded them into a dog crate in the back of our (covered) pickup this morning and drove two and a half hours to the farm where they were born. Sharon, the knowledgeable and kind-hearted breeder, had prepared for them the very pen where they had lived until we bought them.

It was a bright early-spring day, the grass emerald green and the trees just beginning to bud. The girls were glad to be out of the crate, and went right for the hay and grass that Sharon had thoughtfully provided.

I had hoped that they would come into heat and mate tomorrow, if not today, so we could get them back right away. But Sharon advised that we leave them seven days after they mate, to make sure they don't come into heat again. If the hormone shots don't take effect until a week from now, that could mean that they would be away for as long as two whole weeks.

I trust Sharon completely, but can I stand this separation?

We left B and A in their pen and went to meet the “boys.” There was Uproar, B and A's father, marigold-colored like Blossom and with a gorgeous, full orange beard. And there was Challenger, the groom-to-be, darker and smaller and taking a nap, perhaps in anticipation of later exertions.

Then we went into the nursery, where the recent arrivals and their mothers live. One little goat, barely larger than my own, had just had quads. Unlike when this happens to humans, everybody looked in great health and spirits.

How can I describe a newborn Nigerian Dwarf kid? Let's just say that, with its legs folded, it would fit inside a soup bowl. A big forehead, wide-apart eyes, a tiny muzzle—all the neotenic features that we are hardwired to lose our heads over. And a tiny voice, high and melodious as a little bell.

Clearly, five months to wait and all those long drives in the truck are nothing when compared to the thrill of having a couple of these babies in my own barn. But there is a dark side to all this: it is the fear that, once they arrive, I will not be able to part with the little creatures.

I have had baby goats born under my care before, exquisite and adorable kids for whom I have found excellent homes right away. I am proud to say that so far I have been rational and uncompromising in my belief that two goats, and only two, are the optimum herd size for me. Two goats mean only eight hooves to trim, two udders to milk, a moderate amount of hay and grain to fetch and carry, and a tolerable pile of poop to compost.

But with this tiny breed, I don't know what will happen. I know it's a slippery road from the first decision to keep “just this one kid” to a herd of hundreds.

But all that is a whole five months away.

For now, the goat stall is empty. The chickens seem quieter. And Wolfie can't figure out where those clever, unpredictable creatures went. I've had goats go away for breeding before, and rather enjoyed the break. But this is different. I feel nostalgic, not to mention foolish, already.