Milk for everyone (but me)

I'm still bottle feeding the two bucklings (soon to be wethers) that I picked up for a song a few weeks back.  They are eight weeks old today.  For some people, eight weeks is the magic number for weaning kids.  Personally, I think it's a bit early and unless the kid is exceptionally well-fed and fleshed out, I won't wean or let any of the for-sale kids go to a new home that early.

So even though I've already got forty bucks into milk replacer for the bottle babies, I'm going to continue feeding them milk for another two weeks, maybe three.  But I don't think I'm going to drop another twenty bucks on a bag of milk replacer because I'll just use what milk I can get out of MamaGoat to feed them.  And when that's not enough, well then it's time to wean 'em.

I've only been milking MamaGoat on occasion.  She's only got the single buckling on her and she has plenty of extra milk in that beautiful bag of hers.  It's not like I'm not using that extra milk to my personal advantage though.  Although I haven't milked her more than twice for human use, I've been letting Lira's tiny doeling, Moo-latte, drink from both MamaGoat and Annette.  Without their permission, of course.

Moo-latte about to sneak a snack from Annette.

They won't let Moo-latte drink from them....unless they're in the stanchion with their feed-crazed maws chowing down on grain in the bucket.  When they've got their heads in that grain bucket, I could get a wild, rabid cougar to nurse from them and they wouldn't care less.

So Moo-lattte is getting some extra milk and Rhiannon can indulge in the occasional glass.

Gott'a have a glass of milk to wash down
that big ol' PB&J sandwich.

I, on the other hand, have had to do without.  Which is just about killing me.  But I'll survive.  And as soon as everyone is weaned, sold or otherwise not drinking milk, I'll be indulging in it and eventually complaining that I have to make cheese to get rid of the surplus.

Still life with milk & petunia (and nosey cat).

Until then, I will look longingly on as everyone, it seems, is drinking milk but me.

Excuses, excuses, excuses.

During one of Rhiannon's many "breaks" from her school day, she wanted to go outside for a bit to get a breath of fresh air.  This was after the break to change out of her jeans because the left leg was itching her, after the break to go to the bathroom, and after the break to check on the baby goats, but before the break she needed because her toenail was too long.

I've gotta put a stop to this.  It's amazing how many, and how varied the excuses are for her to get a break from whatever subject she isn't interested in at that moment.  Actually, she's just a fount of excuses, most of them downright pathetic.

One day she asked to have soup for lunch.  So even though soup was not on the lunch menu, I obliged and made her a bowl of soup.  When she lost interest it in mere seconds after spooning it into her mouth, she said she didn't want anymore.  Her reason?

Her soup was too wet.

I'm not sure where she gets it.

Well that was a bold faced lie.  I know exactly where she gets it from.

Because now I've been making excuses for my goats.  Pickles and Dilly, both of whom popped out kids with problems, most likely White Muscle Disease, were supposed to be headed for the sale barn.  Or the freezer.  I hadn't made up my mind yet.  Part of me has a problem with taking animals to the sale barn because really, I don't think they should be allowed to continue breeding and there's no way for the new owner (i.e. sucker) to know about their history.  And although I would probably get over shooting Pickles and putting her in the freezer (oh, the wonderful, peaceful silence!!), I don't think I could shoot Dilly because she turned out to be a nice goat and a great mother.

So now I'm thinking I may give them both another chance.  Because the White Muscle Disease is supposed to be from a lack of Selenium and / or Vitamin E, I'm going to give them both a shot of Bo-Se right before breeding and a few weeks before kidding.  If I can get them bred for a November or early December kidding, I'll keep them.  It will be interesting (but depressing if they pop out reject kids again) to see if the Bo-Se will prevent their kids from having these problems.

Then there's Lira, whom I also vowed to get rid of once she popped her kids out.  But darnit, her kids are just too stinking cute.  And now, even though I vowed to not keep another buck on the homestead, her buckling is something I think I may want to keep in the herd to pass on the black headed genes.  Then there's her teeny-tiny doeling, who is, well, just teeny-tiny.  And cute.  Unbelievably stinking cute.  So I think I may keep her and breed her, but wait until next year to do so if she can make weight, because again, I'd like to keep that black headed gene in our herd.

Moo-latte, doeling

Moe-lasses, buckling

Lira (the mother of the two black headed boers) is still probably on the way out though, regardless of her ability to pop out black headed Boers, which may have been a fluke anyhow.  She is just as loud and just as annoying as Pickles.  Not to mention the fact that she is beyond a wimp.  You can be low goat on the totem pole and survive, but not if you're low goat AND a total wimp.  She gets chased around and runs for the hills.....without concern for her kids.  Not a mothering skill I want around here.  So after she weans her kids, I'll put her on the local FB page and be honest about why I'm getting rid of her.  Total Wimp.  Which may be fine for another herd with less dominate, or smaller goats.

But there is NO way I'm keeping any of the dairy kids this year.  No matter how cute.

No excuses.

Salad Bar is OPEN

Our goats are dry lotted.  We don't have the pasture fencing up yet so the majority of their roughage comes from hay.  When I'm ambitious, once the grass starts growing in the spring I'll tie one or two of the goats up to a long lead and stake them out in whichever area is overgrown and could use some munching down.  It is, however, usually a pain in the rear because no matter how careful I am in selecting a stump, stick, large weed or other obstacle-free area, in fifteen and a half seconds, the goat will have managed to wrap the lead, and itself, around whatever branch may be sticking up from the ground and almost strangling itself or cutting the circulation off to a foot or something.

The next best way to get 'dem goats some fresh greenery is for me to get my sloth of a self out in the overgrown area and cut it down and feed it to them in their pen.  I used to use a pair of kitchen shears to do this, but it tends to not only be slow-going, but I end up with a blister on my finger.  So last year I tried using a small, antique hand scythe I had hanging up on the wall as a decoration.  Paul sharpened it up for me and it worked rather nicely.

So today I took the hand scythe down from it's winter hanging spot and scythe'd myself two laundry baskets full of "Fresh Mixed Greens" for the Caprine Crew.

They were most appreciative:

Well, at least I'll pretend that they were.  They did seem to be enjoying themselves.  Well, at least in between the pushing and shoving and head butting in order to get to the better greenery....even though it was all pretty much the same thing.  Are all livestock so freaking crazy about foodstuffs?  

I bet I could tie up all my goats and come out of the barn with a bucket of cat shit.  I would walk around with the bucket and let one goat come near the bucket.  As soon as the other goats saw that the selected goat was even remotely interested in the bucket, regardless of what was in it, every stinking goat would pulverize, stampede or otherwise do whatever it was in their power to get to, and even possibly eat, everything in the catshit filled bucket just BECAUSE some other goat was looking at it.

Anyways.  Back to the scythe.  

So I was thinking, maybe I could invest in a full sized scythe.  It would make cutting all that goat food a ton easier.  Well, at least after I figured how to use it.  Apparently there is an art to using one.  And given my not-so-good hand-eye coordination (remember the whacking of the rabbit?  There is STILL a gash in my shin from it.), I'm a bit concerned that I may lop off my leg or at least slice into it far enough that I'd sever an artery and end up bleeding to death out in the middle of the back yard before anybody noticed that I hadn't been seen for a while.

Do any of my readers have a scythe?  Do any of you actually know how to use one?  Have you ended up in the E.R. because of it?  Have you ended up in the slammer because of it?  Never mind, I don't want to know.  Well, at least not about the slammer incident.

Non-Approved Cat Toy

My cats have different tastes when it comes to playthings.  Evil Kitty has an old, beaten up, fuzzy red heart with a bell on it that she occasionally batts around the house.  Susan prefers a simple length of yarn to chase or the occasional strand of dental floss that Paul teases her with.  Outside Kitty has a more varied selection of cat toys.  He has a large furry rat that rattles and he will carry that around in his maw for a while before sitting on it and doing the crazy-claw-attack with his back paws.  He also adores chasing around a ratty catnip mouse tied to a length of ribbon and dragged behind my daughter, around the kitchen table, up and over the couch and into the bedroom.   And of course, everybody loves the laser pointer.

Outside Kitty not only has a basket filled with cat toys, but he also has a annoying cute habit of wanting you to play with him and his toys in the middle of the night.  He'll select a toy from the basket, do the midnight-crazies thing with it throughout the bedroom, then bring the toy up on the bed wanting you to throw it to him.  If the toy is placed within two inches of my still sleeping hand or near my foot,  I'll toss it / kick it off the bed and hope he goes away and leaves me alone.

This pathetic collection of toys does not amuse me, human slave.

A few days ago, I noticed that Outside Kitty came inside through the "cat door" (i.e. a flap of sliding door screen that has torn at the bottom and is now the official cat door.  Convenient, yet hillbilly all at the same time.)  After a while, I also noticed that he was doing the midnight-crazies thing, but in the middle of the afternoon.  I went to find out what the ruckus was and found that he had a new cat toy; a live mouse.

He has obviously learned that if he has one of these "moving meat" cat toys, I will come and take it away from him.  He wouldn't let me get close enough to him so that I could grab the still very much alive mouse out of his mouth.  Every time I got down on the floor and reached for him, he'd give a little muffled growl through his furry-rodent-filled maw.  So finally I just sat down with him in the kitchen hoping that he would drop the mouse and give me the opportunity to smash it with my boot.  Well, he did drop it.  And walked away, letting the mouse run under the dishwasher or the refrigerator, I lost track of it after frantically trying to chase it on all fours and hurling a boot at it.

Later that night, I was awakened by his "Play with MEEE" meowing and a crazed shuffling around the bedroom floor, under the bed, into the bathroom and then out into the kitchen....then back into the bedroom for more crazed-cat-toenails-on-the-laminate flooring before I realized that, shit, he probably had the mouse.  I rolled my sluggish and still-melatonin-medicated self out of bed and found him in the living room with the moving meat toy (i.e. half-paralyzed but still very much alive mouse).  Again, he was not going to give up his plaything so I sat on the floor with Susan and Evil Kitty and the three of us watched him play with the poor, half-dead rodent and hoped that he would eventually bore of it and walk away.  Which he did not.

OMG, Outside Kitty looks immense in this pic.  

So I eventually feigned non-interest and turned the computer on and watched funny cat videos.  I finally heard silence and turned around to see that the mouse had finally expired.  Thinking that he was tired of the thing I went to pick the soggy gray mass of fur, but he snatched it away before I could grab it.  I went back to the computer and then heard the soft, moist gnashing of a cat's jaws and watched him finish a midnight snack.  Yuck.

I went back to bed, but couldn't fall asleep because I was waiting for the sound of the cat yacking up the chewed and slobbery remains of the mouse on the rug.  Which, luckily, did not happen.  Or at least I'm saying that it did not happen as I have yet to stumble upon any chunky-mouse-bits cat vomit.  I may still find it in the corner of the laundry room or flip it out of the pile of blankets on the bench or have my mother stumble upon it while cleaning underneath the bed.

I'll let you know when it turns up.

Goats Galore

Up until last year I could tell you, usually within a few hours, exactly when the goats would kid.  Then last year Pickles and Lily just shot out their kids before I could even get them into a kidding stall.

This year, the Boers didn't fail to stump me.  Both Dilly and Clover popped out their kids without me even wondering if they were ready.  And both gals were early; Dilly by three days and Clover by six.

Because of the Boer's early kidding, I've been on close watch with Lily for the past week, both day and night.  Not a lot of sleep happening around here lately, especially during the stormy nights.  And nothing.

Lily's had a little bit of goo going on for the past seven plus days, but still nothing.  She's also been having labored breathing while laying down, but heck, who wouldn't have trouble breathing when you've got that huge belly on you, pressing up against your stomach and lungs.  Twice now I swore that she was in labor, but I guess it was just her being darned uncomfortable while prone.  Both Lily and MamaGoat were due on April 2nd.

Then right before the big storm system came through, I would have bet money that Annette was in labor.  She was laying down in the new "go to" spot for kidding under the new shed and grunting a lot.  I thought it was early labor pains, but now I'm thinking it was just from being so  uncomfortable.  It seemed every time she yacked (or whatever you call it) up her cud to chew, she would groan and strain a bit.  But I guess that all that baby on her gut makes cud chewing and digestion more difficult.  The nights wore on and no hard labor signs and this morning no sign of goat babies from either Lily or Annette.

So imagine my utter surprise when I went out to the goat area on Friday to feed the ingrates.  Standing right next to Pyewacket were two little baby goats.  Dried off and nursing.  I had just checked on her hours earlier and didn't see the slightest sign of labor.  No puffy behind, no sunken-in look, no goo, no grunting.  Not a stinking sign.

Babies, BOOM!

Then Saturday morning greeted me with the screams of goat labor.  MamaGoat, who was due the day before, popped out a cute little buckling.

Buckling, BAM!

Annette went into labor on Monday, a day early, and had a buckling and doeling.  I was able to catch her right before she popped and got her in the kidding pen.  Another Easy Peasy kidding!

Annette's kids (buckling on the left, doeling on the right).

Sharon and I took a break from farm chores and went into town for a bit.  When we pulled back into the driveway, Ben (Sharon's son) was waving us down; there was another goat baby!  Paul and Ben supervised and helped Lira deliver a buckling and teeny-tiny doeling.  Both were up and nursing fairly quickly but they don't seem to be as lively as Annette's kids who were born only four hours earlier.

Black headed Boers.  Where did THAT come from?!

So now I'm still waiting on Lily.  Which I now realize was bred twice last Fall, just like the year before.  And she kidded on her second breeding date.  So she's either one week late or still has two weeks to go.  And when she's done, kidding season will finally be over.  For this year anyways.

Baby Goats or Bust

Paul's sister Sharon and her son came down to visit with us yesterday.  Sharon had been asking if they'd be here to witness any goat births and according to my Goat Calendar, I told her probably not; she was coming between kiddings, so she'd be covered in baby goats, but not here for the actual kidding.

But since it's obvious my goats are not consulting the same Goat Calendar I am, Sharon's visit did so happen to coincide with a birth.  She didn't arrive in time for Friday's birth of Pyewacket's twins though; she was too busy dealing with the aftermath of a hit-and-run on her car and arrived three hours too late for it.  But at least they ARRIVED.  Neither she nor her son we seriously injured, but the same could not be said for their vehicle.  Apparently Sharon was hellbent on seeing a goat birth so they got a rental car from the insurance agency, packed up their shaken, but mostly unbroken items, and continued on South for their visit.  Personally, I probably would have driven straight back home after such an ordeal and drowned my sorrows and eased my anxiety in a glass (or five) of whiskey.

Sharon imbibed instead on a glass (or five) of martinis and sported her fancy muck boots to help us check on the pregnant goats in the middle of the night.  No baby goats that evening though.

Sharon packed accordingly;
Floral print muck boots
and a Martini.

During today's morning barn check, I didn't find any new baby goats, but I did find Dilly's remaining buckling in the corner of the barn....mostly unresponsive.  I noticed the past two days he wasn't drinking as much, and yesterday he barely managed to hang onto Dilly's teat and was breathing heavy after any exertion.  The night just about did him in.  I held him for a while, trying to determine if he was just exhausted or tired, but he was just not well.  I brought him by the house, held on to him for a while longer and then asked Paul to come out and put him out of his misery.  I don't think he would have made it through the morning.   So both of Dilly's bucklings are gone.  She's been yelling for him all morning and it's sooooo depressing.

No more than an hour after ending the buckling's life, I heard the tell-tale scream of a goat in labor.  MamaGoat was in one of the mobile goat huts and getting down to business.  I saw a little goo on her around 7am, but she didn't look like she was having labor pains.  I was able to walk her into the kidding pen and she labored in there for probably five more minutes.  The kid was presented correctly, but MamaGoat was having a little trouble passing the head so I pulled with her contractions and delivered the kid.  He was up on his legs in minutes and MamaGoat was in the bucket of grain before I was even sure she was finished.  She was.  A single, healthy, nursing-already buckling.

So Sharon did get to see a kidding.  And a death.  And it isn't even 11 am yet.

A Decade of Dreams

Exactly ten years ago yesterday, I made the "final" trip from Illinois to the Ozarks.

Although I've made trips back to Illinois since, that car ride a decade ago signified my official moving date and my passage from a F.I.B. to an Arkansan.

A lot has happened since that move.  Which isn't surprising really.  How static can one possibly stay for ten years?

Paul and I got our first chickens.  I was so excited that during the ride home that I called my sister just so she could hear all the peeping chicks.  We brooded them in the basement utility room.  Never again.  Several months later, we ate our first home grown eggs, and have since eaten hundreds of other meals containing eggs from our chickens.

I butchered my first chicken; the mean ol' rooster from the initial straight-run batch.  I slit his throat and didn't cry.  I dry plucked him, then vowed never to dry pluck another bird.  I shoved my hand up his backside and yanked all the guts out.  Which looked exactly like the guts in the pictures from science class.  Who would'a thunk it?  Then we ate him.  And he was good.

Paul and I drove home with a Saanen and a Nigerian Dwarf in the back seat of the car.  I attended my first farm birth with Nettie's first kidding.  I milked my first goat, and drank my first glass of raw goat milk.  We still have Nettie (although she is retired from milking as of last year) and Chop Suey, who never really did much of anything except eat hay and entertain us.

We planted our first garden.  Had to use a backhoe to dig the holes for the tomatoes.  But ten years of goat / mule / chicken poo & bedding have amended the "soil" to where we don't have to use a 40 hp farm implement to plant our vegetables.  But a rock bar still helps.

Encouraged by our first chick purchase, we bought twenty-five Cornish Cross meat birds to raise.  We got them all to butchering weight, and managed to get them all in the freezer.  We now raise them every year.  And they are yummy.

Then we tried our hand at ducks.  Which were incredibly delicious.  But were also incredibly messy.  And they hated me with every last fiber of their extremely yummy, crispy skin existence.  Once I forget how much they messed everything up and how disgusting they were, we'll raise them again.  Smoked duck finished in the oven to crispy up the skin is something you must try before you die.  Seriously.

My Mom & Stepfather moved down here.  I now get to tease my Mom, on an almost daily basis, about what type of wild animal I am serving her for lunch.

Eggs were saved from our laying flock and we hatched out chicks.  Another unbelievably amazing thing to witness.

We sectioned off more garden areas.  Made more raised beds.  Planted blueberry, blackberry & raspberry bushes.  Put in cherry, plum, apple, peach, nectarine and pear trees.  Harvested our first tree fruits two years ago.  And had to subsequently harvest a multitude of squirrels to ensure there was, in fact, a harvest.  Peach cobbler goes nicely with Squirrel Pot Pie.

I bought a mule.  Who I've only put a saddle on twice.  Who now lives up the road at my Mother-In-Law's pasture with Nugget, the bastard of a mini-horse.  Neither of whom I ride, both of which are just big hay burners.

We welcomed Rhiannon into our lives.  Two months early, but you'd never know by looking at her now.  She just turned six years old.  I have no idea where the time went.  Really.  Where the hell did the time go?

We brought meat goats in to our herd.  We ate our first meat goat.  And we will continue raising Boers and eating them. They are yummy.

I shot my first deer.  Also yummy.

We said goodbye to several of our family pets; Stupid Cat, Cheese, Crackers, Aragon, Luna & Moonshine.  We said hello to several others; Evil Kitty, Charlie, Outside Kitty.

The list goes on and on and on.  And I can't imagine being anywhere else in the world.  Well, I suppose I could very well easily imagine, but I don't have the urge, or financial resources to accomplish it.  And I'd probably want to come back here anyhow.

I can only hope for wonderful things to come for the next ten years here on the homestead.  Since the beginning of the year, there have been a few bumps in the road (well, more like gaping potholes that would swallow a Ford Escort), and we've taken it in stride.  But in addition to that big bump, we've also started on something great that will impact our lives for the foreseeable future.  And, no, I will not yet divulge what those things are because we're still dealing with both the good and the bad.  But mostly because it's pretty boring.

So bring it on, Dear Universe!  I can't WAIT to see what the next decade has in store for us :)