Smell Confessions

First thing in the morning, the dog breathes on my face.  Even though I brush her teeth every single day, Bisou’s morning breath is a little off.  And yet, while I recognize its slightly swampy overtones, it pleases me.  If it were the breath of another dog, I would probably be offended by it, but it is the breath of my dog in whom I am well pleased, and so it is o.k. 
  
When they first put my newborn daughter in my arms, I bent to smell her hair and was instantly transported back to the five-year-old me, standing with my grandfather in the pig barn.  One of the sows had just farrowed, and my grandfather reached into the wiggling, snuffling litter, picked up a piglet, dry and clean from its mother’s tongue, and gave it to me to hold.  I put my nose to its cream-colored bristles, and inhaled the subtly rancid scalp smell that twenty years later would be my first experience of motherhood.  

I've never met a stinky cheese I didn't like-- Camembert or Taleggio, the riper and runnier the better as far as I am concerned.  On the other hand, and this may seem strange coming from a former goat lady, I cannot abide the "goaty" tang of most goat cheeses.  It is the musk of the rutting buck, and if you ever go near one of those Beelzebub-like creatures, dousing himself with his own urine in preparation for lovemaking, you won't forget it.  Milk absorbs smells easily, and the scent of a buck in the farm down the road can contaminate the milk of a sweet-smelling doe.  When my does came back from their autumn visits to the buck, I would feed their milk to the dogs and chickens for three days before I could even think of making cheese with it.  But lots of  people appreciate a whiff of buck in their cheese, and who am I to judge?

For my part, I find the smell of skunk as I drive down a country road in summer pleasantly reminiscent of the Jovan musk cologne that I used to splash on myself every morning back in the 80s, when shoulder pads proclaimed our womanly assertiveness and it was not yet politically incorrect to wear perfume.

A Good Day To Be Outside

It's miraculous weather here at the moment—blue skies, cool breezes, no bugs. Well, almost--I just got my first black-fly bite of the season. It made a big lump behind my ear, and blood trickled down my neck. I think it's a badge of honor, a sign that I'm a real Vermonter.

This is the kind of weather that makes even weeding enjoyable. The ground is moist and loose, the weeds young and naïve. They give way easily and I dump them into a big tub and carry them to the goats and chickens, who enjoy picking through them like customers at a yard sale.

Later in the year, sweat runs into my eyes and stings me as I weed. But now, barely breaking a sweat, I congratulate myself on getting a headstart on the weeds. Pretty soon the “good” plants will form a canopy over the ground and smother the weeds in their cradles.

Everything smells so good. Here is what I smelled this morning: lilacs of a certain age (I dislike the scent of immature lilac), lemon balm, orange mint, lavender, ornamental sage (strong stuff), some unidentified mint, chamomile, apple mint, rose/lemon geraniums, and drying hay.

After weeding, I started moving stuff around: some thyme into the bare spot next to the back steps, some sunflower volunteers from the vegetable garden to the area under the bird feeder, and the mystery seedlings to a bed I made for them in a sunny spot (I'm sure they're the descendants of Halloween pumpkins we chopped up for the chickens last fall).

I filled the watering can in the tub garden and watered the new plantings. Then I refilled the tub garden with the hose. Why not water directly from the hose, you ask? First, because plants hate cold showers, and the water from the tub is not icy like the water from the hose, which comes straight from the well. Second, because this allows me to renew the water in the tub, which will help to keep my two precious Shubunkin, Alpha and Omega, alive.

Since I got the two fish a week ago, I've barely caught a glimpse of them. I read that you should provide fish with a good hiding spot, and I did such a good job of that that nobody would guess there are guests in the tub. I'm hoping that with time they will get over their shyness.

After the gardening I realized that this was the day to wave the buck rag.

Here's some more goat ob/gyn: goats come into heat every 18 to 21 days. The signs of heat are tail wagging, restlessness, bleating, and secretions from the appropriate places. Usually a goat will show all these even if there isn't a buck for miles around. But some goats have “silent” heats, and that's when you have recourse to the buck rag. This is a piece of cloth that has been rubbed on a buck's scent glands (on the top of his head) and carefully stored in a glass jar.

With the wood thrush as background music, I opened the jar and waved the cloth in front of Blossom and Alsiki. They were certainly interested. They sniffed and sniffed and tried to nibble it. (The buck rag, by the way, smelled like very old goat cheese, the kind I can't stand.) Then they tried to nibble my shirt.

They did not, however, wag their tails, become restless, bleat, or anything else. Perhaps they were just happy to smell their old friend, the buck Challenger, whom they had visited recently. Perhaps they are repressed, and believe in keeping their feelings to themselves. Or perhaps, may it please the goddesses, perhaps they're pregnant.

This evening, as my husband mowed the lawn, I found a freaked-out toad trying to escape the mower. I picked it up--it lay cool and still in my hand--and carried it to a hiding place near the vegetable garden.

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.