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.

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.