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.
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.