More Confessions Of A Milkmaid

It was Christmas Day when I gave up milking my goats because of terrible pains in my shoulder. It took a lot for me to reach that decision. After all, things were going swimmingly in the goat house: the babies had just gone to a wonderful home and I was getting almost two quarts/day from Blossom, their mother. For a Nigerian Dwarf goat, that is a lot of milk--and what milk it was, rich, sweet, full of protein and fat. My city-bred grandchildren, who were staying with us during the holidays, were drinking the stuff as fast as Blossom could make it, and the one adult in the family who puts cream in her coffee was happily using Blossom's milk instead.

But Blossom, as I have explained, was a demon milker, and each encounter on the milking stand required much bending and twisting and holding and forcing and sweating, not to mention actual milking, on my part. It hurt so much that I finally quit.

I stopped feeding the goats grain (I gave them all the hay they wanted) and that and the cold weather helped them to stop producing almost immediately. At the moment, then, I don't have dairy goats. I have, it pains me to say it, pet goats.

Why does it pain me to keep goats, especially these adorable tiny goats, as pets? I don't know. All I can say is that I have a compulsion to have only farm animals that are productive, that feed us, that eat our grass (though mostly they eat hay I buy at the store) and our pumpkins and turn them into milk, or in the case of the hens, into eggs. I have a vision of the cycle of nature being reenacted on our bit of land, and the goats need to be participants rather than spectators.

For the moment, however, Blossom and Virginia Slim are dry. In the mornings I take them a bucket of water spiked with cider vinegar, give them a handful of grain, open their door to the outside, replenish their hay and bid them have a good day. I'm back in the house in no time. There's no milk to strain, no milk pail and strainer to wash. Same thing in the evening. I miss the milking and it's not that much trouble, really, but...it's awfully nice not to have to do it.

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.

Confessions Of A Milkmaid

At first I thought I would keep the events of this morning to myself, but I've read too many pop psychology books not to know that unpleasant things will fester if they're hidden. And as a recovering Catholic, I have retained a belief in the salutary effects of confession. So here goes.

It is customary in goat circles to separate the babies from the mother at night a couple of weeks after birth. In the morning, the goatherd feeds the babies from a bottle—which results in goats who love people—then milks the mother and reunites the family.

Last night, I separated the babies from Blossom for the first time. First thing this morning I warmed a bottle of milk and picked the kids up one at a time and fed them. Then I put Blossom on the milking stand.

This was not the first time I'd milked her. We'd had short practice sessions since she'd given birth, and though she had started out compliant, she had become more and more rebellious. But this morning she reached new heights of obnoxiousness. She bucked, she kicked, she yelled—all the while swallowing great mouthfuls of grain. The minute I slid the milk pail under her, she sat down, by which I mean that she lowered her hind quarters and put her entire udder inside the pail. This made it impossible for me to get my hands around the teats.

I was quite calm at first. I sang my usual milking ditty—a Spanish folksong about shepherds leading their herds down from their summer pastures. I tried to speak soothingly. But it's hard to speak soothingly while wrestling with a small but amazingly strong goat.

Every once in a while I'd be able to squeeze some milk into the pail. I tried holding one of Blossom's hind legs up in the air and milking one-handed, but that put me in a contorted position that I couldn't maintain for long. And the whole time Blossom yelled and screamed. I know you're thinking “edema,” or “mastitis.” But no, her udder was not hard or hot or swollen. She was just being contrary.

With every squirt I managed to get from her, milk spilled onto my hands and clothes. I gave both of us a break, dried myself off, breathed deeply, and tried again, but when I slid the pail under her, she kicked it out of my hands.

And that, Reader, is when I lost it. I picked up the milking pail and...emptied its contents on top of Blossom.

This of course left me feeling terribly foolish, and with some cleaning up to do: the goat, the milking stand, the floor.

I spent the rest of the morning mulling over the situation. I have dealt with a few recalcitrant milkers in my time, but I've never been beaten by one. And this morning Blossom beat me.

I decided that I would milk her three times a day. I would use a small stainless steel bowl instead of the big milk pail. I would ground and center myself and breathe deeply and say a short prayer to the goat gods. I would expect whatever milk I got to be useless for human consumption, as a result of having been stepped in—in other words, I would not attach to outcomes.

And so I went out at noon, and again this evening, and centered myself and brushed Blossom and petted her and sang to her and did not attach to outcomes. Which was good, because there were none—she refused to let her milk down. But at least she was a little calmer, and so was I.

Tomorrow morning, as soon as I open my eyes, I will sally forth once more to confront my goat. I will be calm, I will be understanding, I will not attach to outcomes. And I will not get my feelings hurt if she kicks the pail again.