In Loving Memory of Lil Nes

Today was a very sad day at our place.

This evening I went out to check the animals. As I approached the goat pen I realized something was "off". My little bottle baby, Nesbitt, wasn't running up to the gate, bleating and happy to see me. This was very unusual. I called and called and looked through the herd for him (it takes a while to find an all white goat in a herd of all white goats). He was no where to be found. I scanned the fence line and saw a goat down by the waterer. I ran over and found that it was Nes. He had gotten his horns tangled in the fence and was electrocuted by the electric fence. I was so devastated to find him. Poor little goat. He was such a dear, sweet little soul. He was born prematurely, pink with a soft sheen of thin fur and weak, bowed legs. He lived in our laundry room for a month while we bottle fed him. We splinted his legs so he could gain strength to stand and walk. Lil Peanut would push him around in his laundry basket. As he grew older we moved him outside where he grazed in the yard and took walks with us. We started to train him to work with the wagon with hopes that one day he would pull Will around the farm in it. He was a great friend to all of us. He had a wonderful temperament and loved people. When I saw him yesterday he bleated and followed me the entire length of the pasture as I walked home. I promised him that I would come back for him soon and take him back "home" once the apple trees were fenced off. I regret not taking him home sooner. I feel very guilty that he suffered the way he did.

We are very heartbroken and saddened tonight to say farewell to a great little goat. I will miss you Nes. You were one in a million.

Tam

Rhubard and Newt

The little piggies continue to grow and become more and more frisky and friendly by the day. The little female has been dubbed "Rhubarb". She is quite a bit bigger than her brother and is already sporting some lucious curves and the beginnings of a pot belly. She is quite proficient in the bottle feeding department and will down 1.5 TBSP in approx. 6 seconds. Wowsers!

The little male has been named "Newton" or "Newt" for short. He is darker than Rhubarb as he has black skin (and she has pink skin). He is quite small and not as voracious of an eater. But this little pig LOVES to snuggle.

The two of them are becoming quite the demanding house guests. Anytime we walk past the laundry room we are met with screeches and squeals. They will try to climb out of their laundry basket home if they don't get their grub every 2 hours around the clock. Very exhausting! We offered them a saucer of milk today with a little Cream of Wheat added in. They both promptly rolled in it, covering themselves from head to toe in sticky, glue-like oatmeal substance. Argh. I quickly bathed them in the kitchen sink and try to remove the crud from every orifice on their little piggy bodies.

Here is a picture of Daddy showing lil Peanut how to gently bottle feed the piglet.


Here wee Peanut tries it out for himself. He's a natural!! Notice wee Newt cruising around on the floor. Lino is slippery on lil piggy hooves (but it does make the cutest clickety-clack noise).


Here the lil cuties are tucked in for bed on their hot water bottle. Notice that they have already chosen one end of their "home" as the designated potty zone. Pigs are miraculously tidy critters. After they eat they trit-trot down to the one end, go potty then trit-trot back to the hot water bottle to snuggle up with each other.


I'm sure its unnatural to love pigs this much, but, geez, how cute are they!

Take care,
Tam

This Lil Piggy is WEE, WEE, WEE!

Excitement has graced our farm once again with the arrival of pot bellied piglet babies. Lulabelle and Vern are the proud parents of some tiny little tykes!


This is the little girl.

Here is the little boy!

Unfortunately big old Lulabelle laid on 4 other babies, so we have taken these two little bundles of squeals into our house to bottle raise. We have them nestled in a bed of towels on top of a hot water bottle and have been giving them fresh, rich Jersey milk from a kitten bottle every few hours. They are sure fiesty little fireballs and not afraid to tell you what they think about things. I've never heard such a big squeal out of something so tiny!

Take care,
Tam

We Didn't Start the Fire

The Infamous Brushpile Fire of 1992.
Our well-meaning father starts up the ole brushpile with a rock, a rag and some diesel fuel. We admire the flames for a bit, then go in for supper. Darkness falls upon us. We look out the window to see flames leaping as high as the tree tops. Dad races out to the scene with pails of water and blankets. He is beating at the flames with the help of our neighbour, Earl. The fire is racing through the grass and consuming spruce trees in a single burst of flame. Our neighbour, Diane, is out on her lawn with a piddly garden hose attempting to protect her mobile home. The fire trucks come. I am watching all of this from Dad's truck. I'm about 11. The fire cheif, Harry, comes over and says "Ma'am, your going to need to move your truck". I'm 11. What the hell! Mom calls to see if we are going to 4-H. Morgan informs her that we are battling a forest fire. Nonchalantly, of course.

The Semi-Disapointing Brushpile Fire of 2007.
A pile of old rotten shit has been accumulating for the last 15 years. It is an eyesore...a wart on the face of the farm. Mom takes Will to music class and I manage to pressure well-meaning Dad into lighting her up. Grandpa Bill comes over, giddy with anticipation of what may be the next big Murray gongshow. Dad pours at least 30 gallons of diesel fuel at random spots on the pile. He then uses a half a box of matches to ignite the pile. The banter between the two Murray men about the best way to light the fire is GOLD. "Jeeeeezus Keeeeeer-iSTE Billy, what are you thinking?" The pile goes up in flames. We sit in lawnchairs and observe, our own feeble garden hose running non-stop to prevent our trailer from going up in flames. Apparently this is boring to the Murray men so they attach two 20' lenghts of pipe to the tractor bucket and proceed to poke, scoop, bulldozed and stir the fire up.

Grandpa continues to heckle and beller orders at Dad about "Jeeeeeesuz KEEEEEEE-RISTE!!! Don't get in that deep sod there! You're gonna get stuck and sink up to the frame and then we'll have to watch your tractor burn!!!!!" It is entertaining as Dad is 300 yards away inside the tractor, immune to the bellers from Gramps. The fire crackles for a few hours and sizzles down to a smoldering pile of ash by evening. Grandpa is disapointed in the lack of action so he barks orders that I bring the rake (none to be found, a hoe will do) and a box of matches. He begins lighting random patches of dried grass on fire, rakes it around a bit. Repeat ad naseum. He creates a patchy patchwork of burned grass with no apparent purpose to it. He bellers at me to start doing the same. Fear and respect seem to guide my shaking hand as I too begin the mindless lighting and scrounging-around-of-flaming grass. Mom arrives at the scene and flips out at the sight of large black bald patches of burn. She is sure that the random patches are due to our negligence and a runaway fire. Dad receives a blast o'shit from her now. Happy Birthday to my Dad!!

The brushpile is nearly gone so we start looking for other items to toss into it. Grandpa starts forking in hay that I have sitting in a pile by the fence for the minis. Er, thanks. We start clearing deadfall out of Maude's pen. Dad has the bucket of the tractor over the fence and we toss old rotten branches and trees into it until it becomes so heavy that it actually puts so much weight on the fence that the rail snaps. Great, broken fence. We yank the broken fence apart and haul it the fire. Hmmm, what else can we burn? We start assessing some of the older trees and try to cut them down with the chainsaw. The taller trees won't fall over "timber" so there are now several precariously dangerous cow-death-traps dangling in the trees. Dearly Beloved opts to just push the smaller dead ones over like a bear.

During these festivities the goats somehow escape. Dad says"Leave 'em. They are fine". As he says this they are standing sedately by the billy goat pen. The moment we turn our backs they stampede and run as hard as they can across the field, across Mom and Dad's yard, past the river and way out into the Larsen's field to eat willows. Dad gets a bright pink bucket of oats to entice them back. They surround him and start head butting delicate areas. We finally get the goats back in. The pigs our roaming around loose now. Screw em! We decide to move the lil red barn into the minis and out of Maude's pen. This results in Marla, the calf, escaping and running wild. The minis then escape, and the bastard mini pony Everett and his mini donkey friends are racing around in the smoke of the brushpile, flipping us the bird. We cant catch them so Dad fires up the quad and roars around in the mud, hollering and chasing down the rebel midget livestock. Everyone is finally back in their pens and its time for supper.

Lil Peanut is getting tired and cranky and bellers through the meal. He won't cheer up to Grandma's offers of "Cake??" (vigourous head shake) Whipped cream? (more head shaking) "Strawberries? (shake-shake-shake). Finally I say threateningly "Do you want to go home to bed??" heh heh heh I have his number. This little toddler won't get my goat today! No-sir-eeeeeee! I have the upper hand!! If in doubt, threaten his least favourite thing. To my surprise/shock/chagrin he enthusiatically nods and says "KAY!" and heads for the door and his coat. Hmmmm, go figure. So poor Oomp had a real doozy of a day and a pretty short lil bday party.

The Land of Milk and Honey

The stoic Sunflower Gentrice GRJ Buffy and her calf, Clover, my most recent nemesis and object of affection. Or is that "infection"?

I used to imagine a magical land, the proverbial Land O' Milk and Honey. Oh, what a wonderous place that must be.

I now know better.

For starters, bees are bastards. Sure, sure, they do a little hiney dance to communicate with hivemates as to the locale of delicious nectar. They are eons ahead of the fashion industry with their contrasting yellow and black wardrobes. Their work ethic is comendable. Not many creatures hum while they slave away tirelessly for the good of the community. But lets face it. They are bastards. Just ask my brothers who have been on death's door several times due to an unpleasant transaction with one of the cranky critters. Recently my midbro, Mo, sported a hand the size of a baseball glove after being stung by a bee. In a hotel. In November. See, they are bastards.

That clears up the misconception that honey could be anything but vile refuse from malicious, vengeful bugs.

Now onto the milk part of the equation.

Cows are not bastards. I will say that first and foremost. They are docile, calm, and reflective. People that own cows, however, should have their heads examined.

Firstly, who was the first genius to look upon the lowly bovine, with her big wet eyes, drooping "sad clown" nether-regions and swollen mammary system and thought "Mmmmmmm, I'd like to have a drink of that?" I'll admit, dairy is delicious. But whoever was warped enough to consider the possibility of ingesting the excretions of such a humble and dowdy beast?

Secondly, who, in the year 2007, when milk is conveniently available at any corner store at any hour of day, would own their own cow?

Sadly, I must admit that I am guilty.

It began a few months ago. I began dreaming of a simpler lifestyle. I envisioned my Dearly Beloved, Peanut and I sitting around the table at night, enjoying a meal of homegrown veggies, fresh, homebaked bread, tender pork chops, fresh, creamy butter and a dessert of ice cream. Who could imagine a more serene country scene? I want to stay home and mother up lil Peanut. What better way to contribute to the family and flex my BSA muscles than to jump feet first into our own agricultural endevours?

First came the goats. Ahhhh, the goats. Those intelligant, quizzical little nymphs. Joy turned to sorrow and misfortune a week after their arrival when 21 dead deformed goatlets arrived on our doorstep, the victims of a nutritional deficiency.

On to "Big Fat Idea #2". I began searching for a lucious milk cow. Our very own "Lil Lady" who would gladly produce gallons and gallons of mammary excretions in exchange for meager room and board. Off I trotted to search the countryside for this wee lass. Time after time I came up disapointed and disgusted as we visited one horrendous wreck of a farm after another.

Last Sunday my perseverance finally paid off. After driving 2 hour I stood face to face with my brown eyed beauty. "Sunflower Gentrice GRJ Buffy" was her name. A big name for a diminuitve little cow. She was all eyes and hip bones wrapped up in a rough coat the colour of a mud puddle. She posesses a certain air of mystery with her black bandit mask. She knows things I dare not ask her about.

Sunday evening she settled into our humble little pasture which is basically my front yard. I enjoyed gazing out at her lovingly from time to time, warming up to the idea of cow ownership.

It wasn't long before the honeymoon was over. A mere 2 days after her arrival she birthed a firecracker of a calf. A little doe-eyed heifer calf, the size and colour of a fawn. She's been christened Clover...as in "Blow me over in the clover...that @#*&% cow calved already!"

And with her arrival Clover brought the shattering blow of reality. Its time to wake up, Princess. Your career as a milkmaid begins NOW.

So with very little time to reconsider or prepare, I found myself face to face with the biggest set of tits I've ever seen.

Day 1 - A little uncomfortable with the thought of manhandling the mammary system of another living thing, I grimace and squat on my haunches near the cow's hindquarters. How in the devil do you get milk out of these things? The method for procuring nourishment from these teats is not self-explanatory. Years of cartoons have not served me well. Simply squeezing them does nothing. One must sort of pinch off the top of the teat to stop the milk from backflowing, then close your fingers to coerce it to squirt out of a wee hole in the tip. The tough part is that the cow must actually cooperate and allow this to happen. Convincing a cow that this form of violation is in her best interest is an artform in itself.

One of the largest hurdles to overcome was the discrepency in teat size. You could say she is an A-cup in the hind teats, and a Double D in the front. The front teats require a full hand and a firm squeeze whilst the piddly back end requires two fingers in a delicate squishing motion. Neither is particularly difficult when performed on its own, however, when one tries to do a full-hand-firm-squeeze with the left hand whilst convincing the right to feather-light-two-finger-squish it is akin to rubbing your tummy while patting your head. The result was comical at best, and depression inducing at worst. My mammoth man-hands have never been at such a disadvantage. The end result was that I gave up on the two-handed traditional milking I've seen time and again on TeleToon. I milked the beast one teat at a time, concentrated fiercely on technique while biting my tongue.

An hour later I finally had approximately 1 litre of life giving fluid. That may sound pretty impressive...until you hear that the cow produces 30 L at her peak lactation. That means there are technically not enough hours in the day for me to milk this damned cow. The other sad thing is that after a full hour her udder was no smaller or softer than at the outset of our journey. The poor beast was still sporting a giant, hard, hot medicine ball between her back legs. Dud Milkmaid - 0, Cow - 1.

Day 2 - Morning Milking - Determined to make more a dent in the poor girl's bountiful bag I enlist the help of my father. He's a dear old Dad, but I am coming to see that he is basically an older, male version of myself. This can lead to some interesting times.

7:30 am rolls around and we position ourselves on either side of the cow. We will surround her and tag team her. This mental intimidation will surely coax the milk out. There is nowhere to go but OUT into the bucket. We prayed our strategy would work.

We huddled against the bovine's thighs, shivering in the -13C weather. Our breath frosted up the hair on her bag as we cussed and tugged at her chilly, shrivelled teats. The metal pail began to ring out with the telltale "ting-ting-ting" as streams of warm milk shot into it, freezing against the sides. It was going better than before. Maybe there was hope.

Suddenly out of left field Clover came barrelling towards me, determined to have her breakfast. I pushed her aside, assuring her that she'd have access to the milk bar as soon as I was finished. The calf was not interested in waiting. She backed up and rammed again, this time her rock hard skull butted me in the face. I reeled in pain, screaming obscenities I didn't even realize I knew. Not the soothing, relaxing environment conducive to milk letdown, I fear. My Dad chuckled on the other side of the cow. At least someone was enjoying this. He tries to lighten the mood by shooting streams of thick yellow milk at me, a cow-powered-milk-gun. I fail to see the hilarity, and later will curse him when my winter wear reeks of rotten milk.

The ruckus unsettled Sunflower Gentrice GRJ Buffy. Her hips started to sway and she slowly lifted up a hoof in protest. In anticipation of her literally "kicking the bucket" both Dad and I instinctively reached for the metal pail at the same time. The warm milk that had been running down our fingers froze our hands to the metal pail, leading to a harrowing few moments as we realized we were stuck on either side of an angry mama cow with a metal pail holding us in a precarious position underneath her. Luckily we both managed to escape unscathed, aside from a little flesh missing from our paws where we pulled off the bucket in a helluva hurry.

We finished the milking in 1/2 hour procuring 2.5 L between the two of us. Defeated, I returned to the house to price out automatic milking machines (more than the cost of the cow) and toyed with the idea of selling her and cutting my losses.

Day 2 - Evening Milking - It was dark by the time I tied Sunflower Gentrice GRJ Buffy up. With some anxiety I sidled up to her now familiar thigh and took a deep breath. I grasped two teats, cranked my left-and-right-brain on at once and vowed to DO THIS THING. I was amazed when both hands began to harmoniously tug milk out of her udder. I'm amazing! I'm a prodigy! I am unstoppable! But wait! I am tugging both sides siumltaneously in a rammy fashion, similar to an orchestra conductor's spastic arm movements at the exciting climax of a very emotional piece of music. In embarrassment I apologize to the old girl for my over-exuberant-16-year-old-boy-esque teat tugging and resume, this time with a measure of patience and timing. Soon the milk is "squirt-squirt-squirt-squirting" into the pail rythmically, alternating between the tiny back teat and massive foreteat with such precision you'd never guess I was dealing with anything but the finest matched teats. Confident in my newfound skill I dazzle her with diagonal milking, then just the fore teats, then just the hind teats. I am the Harlem Globetrotters of the milking community.

Pain and numbness start to creep into my hands, arms and back. I feel fatigued, yet the bottom of the pail is barely covered in milk. I begin counting, vowing to get 100 squirts of milk before I take a break. With the manageable goal of 100 squirts I press on, the end in sight. The first 100 are monumental. I start another 100 squirts, driven on by the raw power that is my capable milking manhands.

The cow sighs and relaxes into the new rythmn. I hum to her, I count to her in a singsong voice "-31-32-33". I sing "She'll be coming around the mountain,", I sing her the Pussycat Dolls. I sing her Christmas Carols. She starts humming herself, emitting soft "mmmuh-mmmuh" cow love sounds, the same she'd give her calf. She starts chewing her cud. I am the friggen cow whisperer.

I breathe deep, inhaling the earthy cow smell and take in the dark sky. The only sounds are the reassuring "squirt-squirt" of the milk hitting the pail and the deep, fume-laden rumble of my pickup truck shedding light on this serene scene. Every once in a while my aim is off and there is a "ping" as the stream of milk bounces off of the side of the pail, or nothing at all, as I accidentally squirt milk down her furry hind legs. When I am finished I have a total of 4 L of milk. I'm getting better!! It will only be a couple of weeks before I can master the 30 L.

Yes, I can do this.

I can master the cow.

Now if only I could master my lactose intolerance, we'd be laughing.

Why I am not tough enough for this farming business...

The horrors of kidding season are over, finally. Less than a month of good, honest work and I am totally exhausted. In the end we ended up with 17 live and 21 dead kids. Talk about horrific. No wonder I feel like I've been drug through a slough by my ankles! For the most part the dead kids were born hairless with huge goiters and lasted only a few agonizing minutes of screaming and bleating. It was terrible, and their little bleats are forever singed into my memory. I am angry, very angry, although with whom or for why I am not sure. It just seems that with a horror of this magnitude someone should be responsible or have some answers for me. I wish I had some answers to give the does, who, although they'd never raised their own babies or even had the chance to nurse a kid before cried and bleated for days. Mourning the loss of their kids? Perhaps. Calling out in the agony of going through 5 months gestation, the pain of birth, and now enduring the discomfort of a tight, red, full udder with no relief or kid to show for it? Maybe. Or perhaps they are just goats, and bleating is what they do best.

In the end the vet lab results concluded that the does were iodine deficient in pregnancy causing their kids to be born with congenital goiters. For the most part they were stillborn or died shortly after birth. Of the 17 live kids many were born with goiters, small and weak. We forged ahead, applying iodine topically and holding them up to nurse from their mothers every few hours, determined to pull them through this rough beginning to life.

The last "live" kid was born the evening of February 26th. I went out to check the last two does that were due to kid. Crumpled in the straw was a tiny frame, nearly devoid of hair and motionless. My heart fell...another statistic to add to the death count. Closer inspection showed that this tiny little premature goat was actually breathing! Holy hell! I couldn't believe it. I looked him over. He was frail, not a bit of muscle on his bony frame, a huge goiter on his throat, and weak, spindly legs that bowed so badly that he was walking on his fetlocks. Oh, this miserable creature did not stand a snowball's chance in hell of making it. But I must give him a chance, so I set to work.

I returned to the house for supplies, and upon returning to the barn I found that the last goat had kidded in my absence, bringing an end to the nightmare that was our first kidding season. Two dead doe kids lay in the straw. My heart fell, but at the same moment I resolved that I must throw my back into saving the little premature goat who seemed to refuse to give up on life.

I held the little gaffer up to his mama and he immediately took a teat in his mouth and sucked with such a voracious appetite and fierce will to live that I was shocked. He struggled to stand, forcing his rubbering, bent legs under him. He was a fighter, this one. It was decided that he should become a house goat. Goats without fur are not meant for outdoor living. We made him a nest in a Rubbermaid tub and moved him into our laundry room.

I christened this little goat "Velveteen Nesbit". His wrinkly, pink skin was covered in a soft, velveteen sheen and Nesbit matched his new "foster brother", Norbit. Norbit was a 3 lb triplet who wanted a mama of his own as he was constantly pushed out of the way by his bigger brother and sister at meal time. We bottle fed Norbit for a few days, and promptly moved him in with Nesbit's mama when Nesbit upgraded to palatial urbanization.

Despite all odds Nesbit continues to live. He is growing stronger by the day, with a fiesty attitude and demanding beller at mealtimes. He will down a baby bottle of whole cow's milk in seconds. His coat is finally starting to come in, although it will be awhile before he gains any muscle mass to fill in his scrawny figure. His bowed legs are gaining strength with the help of tiny splints I've fashioned from vet wrap bandages and the handles from plastic picnic forks. He gets stronger by the day and is starting to walk further and further on his daily excursions from his tub.



I know many seasoned goat ranchers would laugh at me for putting so much effort into a lost cause. But really, how can I not? And when you see lil Peanut looking up at you with his Big Brown Eyes and curiously eyeballing the pink, bald goat in our laundry room, I want to show him that all creatures deserve love, caring and dignity right up til their last day.

Til next time,

Tam P. Exhaustion

When Kidding is No Laughing Matter...Focus on the Positive!

We have had a really rough time kidding this year. So far we've lost 9 kids, and have 12 alive. We believe it is because of an iodine deficiency that we are working hard to correct. Rather than dwell on the sad stuff we are going to focus on the good. Here are some of our healthy, fiesty, frisky kids:
Here is little Cowboy strutting his stuff. He is a real character and keeps his mama, Betty, on her toes.

Here Puff feeds her twins Ned and Nancy. She was the first mama to kid so you can see their newborn pictures below. Puff is a great mama.

Here Margo feeds her twin bucklings. She has her work cut out for her with this frisky pair! She is also a doting mama who caters to her two little guys needs.

This is Nancy, our "first born" doeling and a real princess. She is teeny tiny but still considers herself quite the special little girl. She doesn't walk...she prances.

This is Phil. We found Phil nearly frozen to death as a sopping wet newborn. We took him in the house, warmed him in the bath and even had to perform mouth to mouth on him. His mama rejected him, probably because he was just too darn clean, glowing white and smelled like a civilized meterosexual goat after his bath. We decided to give Phil a new mama, Janice. They took to each other right away. Phil did great for about a week, then one day he was suddenly limp and cold. We brought him in, stomach tubed him and warmed him up. He started to perk up and continued to improve with bottle feeding every few hours. We were sure he'd be a house goat. When he started to improve we replaced the bottles with feeds on his foster mama then back to the life of luxury in his warm bed. He was improving and things were looking up. When we went out to feed him one morning he was just gone. We tried so hard to keep him going. He was a sweet little goat. We love you, Phil! Rest in peace, lil buddy. We wish you abundant fields of willows and lots of creamy milk in goaty heaven.

This kidding is hard work. Like they say "T'was the best of times, t'was the worst of times". I just have to keep focusing on the healthy little ones and looking forward to next year when we won't be facing so many challenges.

Take care,
Tam

Just Kidding!!

We have babies!! Lovely #6 (aka "Puff") birthed a lovely set of twins today. A little buckling with Boer colouring (aka "Ned") and a pure white doeling (aka "Nancy"). Puff did a great job, having them in the shelter full of clean straw, licked them dry and let them nurse right away. They are hardy little kids, wrangling for a teat before they could even stand. Phew, what a great start to our new kidding adventure.

Pig on the Run

Its just another peaceful country morning. The sun is shining through the windows. Dappled shadows play across the kitchen floor. Just another day in paradise.

Suddenly the entire trailer starts to shudder as though someone has driven a compact car into the end. What is going on? Alarmed, we rush to the window. What could have shattered our blissful, relaxing morning?

There on our deck is a hefty, black creautre. She is covered in dense, bristly black hair, with a startling dash of pink on her underside and behind each armpit. Peach. The pot bellied sow has escaped from her pen (again) and is investigating the deck. As she 'tippity taps' along the wooden deck the entire trailer vibrates under the weight of her prancing. She elegantly picks up her hooves and descends the stairs with an unexpected grace from a body so rotund. She truly is poetry in motion.



She scampers across the yard, stopping briefly in front of the pen that houses our resident boar, Vern. She flirts a bit. From my lookout post in the front room I can see her long, luxurious piggy eyelashes batting. Vern raises his head in interest. Its not hard to imagine him giving Peach "the wink and the guns", if he had opposable thumbs, that is.

My Dearly Beloved decides that enough is enough. Pigs aren't meant to be free ranging around our yard. Peach raises her snout as he approaches. She begins wagging her tail and trots to meet him. Her intelligant eyes survey him curiously. Dearly Beloved guides her back to her pen, and she williingly scuttles through the gate he holds open for her. What a good pig. Peace is restored.

A few moments later we feel the familiar rumble outside on the deck. She's out again. *sigh* What to do with her? She suns herself on the warm wood, content. Now who can complain with a sight like that out their front window?

Playing Poohsticks

What is up with children's books? I am appalled, disturbed and often bewildered at the stuff that gets published. Today, for instance, lil Peanut totters up to me with a big grin and a Winnie the Pooh book. Delighted, we snuggle up to read a tale of, I assume, cutesie bears and piglets. Not so. The story was nonsensical and borderline pornographic. The text follows:

Playing Poohsticks
Inspired by A.A. Milne
Illustrations by Ernest H. Shepard
Copyright 2003 Dutton's Children's Books

"One day Pooh and Piglet and Rabbit and Roo were all playing Poohsticks together.

They dropped their sticks and when Rabbit said "Go!" they hurried to the other side of the bridge to see whose stick would come out first.

"I can see yours, Piglet," said Pooh.

"Mine's the sort of greyish one," said Piglet.

And out floated Eeyore.

"I didn't know that you were playing," said Roo.

"I'm not," said Eeyore. "Tigger bounced me."

"I didn't bounce. I coughed," said Tigger.

"What does Christopher Robin think about it?" asked Pooh.

"I think we all ought to play Poohsticks," said Christopher Robin.

So they did."

I shit you not. That is an actual published children's book. In its entirety. Sad, eh? Is it any wonder that our youth has gone to hell in a handbasket? I am sure some book wig author choked this bad boy out on a piece of toilet paper while draped across a toilet seat in some drunken haze. How do I get me one of those gigs??

We've Gone to the Goats

The queen of the flock, Flora (brown head) says "Well how do you do?"

Yes, its true. We've finally lost it. What originally started out as a business venture has now snowballed into a wild obsession. Its amazing how quickly that happened!

We've all got goat fever. Yes. All of us. Dear lil Peanut is found rolling about in the hay and straw (and goat berries) "moooooing" in the afternoon sun. My Dearly Beloved takes shifts checking the "girls" before and after work, filling his evenings with construction projects and operating the tractor, albeit rather awkwardly, to bring them hay. Sweet lil Mama pipes up with her opinions on the goat's names: "Well you've GOT to have a Maude!" My dear, sweet Dad has me up at 6 am and out til 10 pm constructing kidding pens that even I'd be honoured to birth in. He's talking about getting his own herd and expanding into goats. The fever has hit us all pretty hard.


Here we introduce our new Maremma livestock guardian dog, Luna, to lil Peanut. Dearly Beloved looks on with majestic pride while our herd looks on. Luna is named after Peanut's book club selection of the month, the eerily disturbing "Goodnight Moon" hence her name is "Ravenwood's Goodnight Moon".



Luna says "Am I doing a good job, boss?"

Perhaps the fever has hit me worst of all. I've ALWAYS loved goats. ALWAYS. Ask anyone from my high school graduating class what they remember about me and they'll likely say "GOATS" without a moments hesitation. Perhaps they will also remember my fashion phases, including the painfully awkward "Mr. Ferly" stage in which I sought to glorify the wardrobe of the turtle-esque "Three's Company" landlord. I refused to wear anything aside from hideous retro plaid bell bottom courderoy pants and rubber Ducky boots. Thankfully I outgrew the plaid pants, but I am still wearing those Ducky boots. Those lil babies covered my feet while I wore shorts in Disneyland circa 1997 and white water rafted in Costa Rica in 1998. They are a timeless classic. But I digress.

Oh yes, the goats. I am perhaps one of the few who had the lovely caprines mentioned during the actual high school graduation ceremony. I suppose I should have seen the addiction starting then. Or perhaps it was years earlier when I first acquired Demetri, the demon goat that smashed the side window out of our mini van and tap danced all over the hood of the Jehovah Witnesses' car. Now there was a goat with a sense of humour!! Demetri was also notorious for head bashing little kids for peanuts and gum when we took him to watch the local parade, and pooping all over the Dance West float the following year when he was actually in the parade. I fondly remember sharing a sleeping bag with him as I slept in his stall at age 11, til he had a bad case of scours and I opted to sleep in the house. You may recall my fond memories of him donning my BroMo's gonchies to treat gangrene when his nads (the goat's nads, not the boy's) fell off. He loved to dropkick the door and come in for a visit, to taste test Mom's dried flowered arrangement and hop on my bed. He was welcome til he smashed my favourite porcelain unicorn, at which point I banished him outdoors forever. He was also skilled at pulling a sled holding kids or hay bales while I ran alongside him. His communication was top notch as he'd crawl under a vehicle (and thereby remove his passengers nimbly by bashing their foreheads into the car door) when he'd had enough. I guess with a childhood like that it isn't any wonder I ended up "like this".

I suppose it comes as no surprise then that with the accumulation of 26 Savanna goats plus my 4 Pygmy goats that it is fully embracing my weakness and shouting to the world "Yes, I am a crazy goat lady". I suppose its akin to being a crazy cat lady sans the shitty litter boxes, wild bird's nest hair do and flowing moo-moo gowns...well, I guess I've got the hair do down anyway.

I've joined the Alberta Goat Breeder's Association. I volunteered to corrupt, er, convert other children as I've volunteered with a youth goat club. How could I resist when I saw pictures of a girl and her goat in matching tutus? I've ordered 2 dairy goat babies (they are fetuses yet!) from BC, and a Pygmy buckling from northern Alberta. I am anxiously awaiting a phone call from southern Alberta to see if we can get a purebred Savanna buck to breed our meat does. I am researching alternative ways to enjoy goats, from chevon recipes to how to make goat's milk soap to finding a group of people that train their goats to pull carts and do agility. AGILITY!! I am in heaven. Who knew such a thing existed? I guess it goes to prove that I am not alone in my insane addictions. I dream of brushing out their wooly coats, collecting the sheddings and making my own cashmere sweater. Yes, cashmere comes from those humble little beasts as well.

When you think about it, goats are the VW bus of the animal world. When God cooked up the notion of GOAT He did a bang up job. What other creature comes fully equipped with meat, milk, pack/draft/cart capabilities, fibre for your sweet threads and friendly companionship in the meantime?? They truly are the all purpose creature of the world. Even their dowdy exteriors remind me of the humble and functional rolly polly lines of the retro everything-ya-need-under-one-roof-and-shag-carpet-to-boot VW vans. God bless ya, goats, God bless ya.

Tam

My Hair Don’t

For the past two years my Mom and I have been driving to a salon in Red Deer to have our hair cut by Aaron, a master of the scissor craft. Despite his wild hair and numerous piercings, Aaron was a sensitive gentleman with a knack for good conversation, remembering important details and names from your life, and an eery sixth sense to know exactly how to cut your hair. You can imagine, therefore, why we were so devastated when he declared in November that he was leaving for a 6 month vacation in Costa Rica before moving to Vancouver for good.

That left us in a real pickle. What to do? Where to go?

Well mid-January is a long time to wait, so finally we got a little antsy and bit the bullet. We booked an appointment at a salon in Red Deer, hoping it would be everything we’d hoped for…and MORE! We gathered every ounce of courage that we could and headed to our date with destiny.

The salon was located at the very edge of the city and we had a heck of a time finding it. We finally found it, took a deep breath and went inside. The huge salon was surprisingly empty. It was trendy enough, and we were lulled into a false sense of security.

I was the first victim. The stylist asked me how I’d like my hair cut. I told her I’d like to go a bit shorter, a little edgier with more texture. She said that was not a problem and set to work. I will never know what happened in the next ½ hour. I think I may have blocked it out for emotional reasons. When I came to the stylist was using a razor to texture my hair. I think she had no concept of my hair type or the fact that I have a cowlick. She just kept sawing away at my head. It was damp when she started, but got drier and consequently shorter as time went on. When she finished it was quite the scary sight, but I told myself to be calm and trust in the stylist. Usually cuts look much better after they are dried and styled. As I am thinking this she says “ALL DONE! Or do you want a little product?”

HELL YEAH, bring on the product! I have hair the consistency of a beaver pelt. Without a fist full of goop you might as well give up.

“Ok” she says meekly, as she dabs a fingertip worth of wussy gunk in my hair. I don’t think she understands we need MORE goop, STRONGER goop. She half-heartedly rubs it around on my head. A noogie would have done a better job.

I bravely smile and thank her for my new style. It looks remarkably like Lloyd’s hair on Dumb and Dumber. Every woman feels beautiful after a bowl haircut.

My Mom went next. She assures me her fate was similar, but I think she looks presentable (ie. Can show her face in public within the next 8 weeks).

We left the salon and had a good laugh in the car. I suppose laughing was a good choice, considering the only other reasonable reaction was tears and shrieking. My Mom tried (in vain) to reassure me that my hair didn’t look like one of those hedgehog shaped boot cleaners people have next to their front doors. She said things like “Now your hair won’t get in your eyes!” to which I responded “Yes, not for at least 3 months!” She said “All you need is some styling product” to which I replied “Yes, some of that spray on hair to put on my forehead where there is hair missing”. Somehow the stylist left the bangs on the left down to brow level while the right side barely skims my hairline.

The only saving grace was that I didn’t get a chance to have a brow wax so I can easily tease my brows up and claim they are my bangs.

It is quite an adventure I’ll tell you. My hair is about 1 inch long in most places, aside from the mange-esque fringe here and there for “texture”. My cowlick causes the “bangs” to stand straight on end, springing up like a rooster's ass feathers. My, oh, my. It’s a good thing my Dearly Beloved is stuck with me because there is no way I’d attract a mate in this lifetime with this ‘do, er, “don’t” I should say. I am tempted to cut my losses and shave it all off and start over. Ai yi yi.

I can’t believe I paid someone to make me look like this! Now I can understand why my Mom stopped going to stylists after my youngest BroLo was born. She let it grow and didn’t return to a stylist til Log was EIGHTEEN years old. Her hair was past her arse, but it sure didn’t look this bad. I’d be pleased if my hair looked half as good as arse hair. Ahhhh, well, what can you do?? I guess the best therapy for such a terrible occurance is to write about it for all the world and post a picture as proof.

Til next time,
Tam (“What the hell happened here?”)

You've Goat to Be Kidding, Right?

Hello friends.

Well, its been a while since we last had the chance to sit down and shoot the breeze. In fact, its been a while since I’ve had the chance to sit down at all!

You see, we’ve really gone off the deep end around here.

We decided that we’d like to get some goats. Not many, maybe just 4 or 6 so we’d have a few babies to sell each year as a hobby that might earn a bit of money. I started searching around and researching goats, breeds, the industry and the market. The more I researched, the better the idea became. We started going out to goat farms, talking to breeders, looking for a few “girls” to bring home.

One of these phone calls resulted in the discovery that there was a small herd of bred does for sale about ½ hour from us. Wow! What a find!! I spoke to the owner Sunday morning, and two hours later I was standing in his pasture viewing his lovely goats. He had 25 bred does and a buck for sale as a package. Right then and there I told him “I’ll take em!”

I guess I must have been running a fever that day because who in their right mind would do such a thing?

The following week was a whirlwind of preparations. We had exactly one week to get a load of straw, hay, build a fence, construct adequate shelter (with electricity and heat lamps no less), figure out how to get water to them, research goats (their habits, nutrition, health and kidding), find a livestock guardian dog, and somehow remain semi-sane. Exactly one week from the day I discovered this herd we loaded them up and brought them home.

And so it began.

Of course, we weren’t done everything yet.

We frantically continued preparing the pens while the goats waited patiently in the trailer. As darkness started to fall we wrestled each goat to the ground, gave her an eartag, vaccination, dewormer, vitamin E/selenium injection and trimmed her hooves. Mind you, it was -20 C, the vaccine kept freezing into slush, the ear tags were so cold they were brittle and kept breaking and the light was fading fast. Definitely not ideal! By 8 pm on Sunday we were finally settling them into their pens with hay and water for the night. Phew. What an ordeal.

We managed to get a few restless hours of sleep in and at 2:30 am I decided I best go check how everyone was doing. I was worried the stress of the day would have convinced one of the girls that kidding would have been a good idea. When I stumbled into the pen with my eyes half closed and my PJs tucked into my goaty-smelling coveralls I couldn’t believe my eyes. The youngest doe, a yearling, had a huge swollen cheek. It was about the size of a baseball and she couldn’t seem to eat, drink or bleat normally. Poor little creature!! She was also limping badly on the front end from our rushed hoof trimming job that clipped her toe and left her bleeding. She was limping on the hind end, perhaps from a sore muscle from vaccine or? I didn’t know. I was so devastated to see “Dora” in such bad shape.

I rushed back to the house and fired up the computer. I searched everything I could on lumpy goats. The most glaringly obvious cause was a terribly contagious abcess disease that renders your herd worthless as the carcasses are condemned. My first day as a goat farmer and already my herd was in ruins!! I was in such a panic that I couldn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night.

Early the next morning I called the vet clinic that had sold me the vaccine. I described the symptoms and they assured me it was a vaccine reaction. My darling husband rushed 45 minutes to town to buy the goat some anti-histamine and raced straight home, taking the day off of work. We bundled our little Peanut into his car seat, parked next to the corrals and practiced rugby tackles to catch Dora. We gave her the injection and inspected her lumpy face. It sure seemed hard. I stuck my finger in her mouth….hmmmm, pulpy and gross. Must be one heck of a bad infection.

I decided to call a different vet for a second opinion. This vet agreed, it did sound like a bad abcess. I asked that she please come straight out and drain it. We didn’t need it spreading like wildfire through the herd.

An hour later I sat waiting in the corrals, covered in sweat and with my elbows coated in goat shit from 8 failed attempts at tackling Dora myself. Apparently while this was going on the vet was wandering around our property, lost, and enticing the dogs dispatch her should she take one misstep. She phoned Dearly Beloved who was trying to encourage Peanut to nap asking where in God’s Name was his wife. Dearly Beloved told her to go to the corrals as I was waiting there. The vet then drove over to my parent’s yard and started honking. Luckily she chose vet medicine over a career that requires some sense of direction and navigation.

Finally I lured her to the proper area and we waited for Dearly Beloved, with Peanut in tow, to come help rugby tackle Dora. Once we had her secured the vet took her temperature and checked her over. Oh yes, her face was mightly swollen, poor little goat. The vet then stuck her fingers in Dora’s mouth and groped around. She managed to pull out a baseball sized ball of cud. Oh my, did my face turn 87 shades of crimson. But PRAISE BE JESUS! The goat did not have a terrible, contagious disease. She was just a glutton. The vet bandaged up her sore foot in a smart hot pink bandage and was on her way.

Phew.

What an intro to goats.

Things went better the rest of the day. Nobody died or even threatened to. We continued to work in a frenzy to get everything ready. I think in a week or two we’ll be ready to bring goats home.

As night fell I went out one last time to check the girls over. Best be sure nobody was in trouble or deciding to birth their babies. Everyone was nestled into their bedding, comfy and content. Oh, but what is this I see?? Dora, officially World’s Stupidest Goat, holding the world record for Not Swallowing the Contents of Your Mouth for the Longest Time was sitting there with another huge baseball sized lump in her face. What a friggin idiot.

Now, you may think I may be regretting my decision to become a lowly goat herder. Ahhh, yes, it may seem that way, but there is a silver lining.

You see, I’ve always been a bit downtrodden that I didn’t pursue a career in vet medicine. I’ve always felt like a bit of a weenie for obtaining my degree in Animal Science instead of going the distance and completing vet school. Yet yesterday it all fell into place and it was perfectly clear to me that this is where I am supposed to be in life. The young female vet came out and worked on our goats. I asked her how things were going and she told me she was unable to ride anymore due to lack of time. We had a lengthy and intelligent discussion about health care, early castration and tusk removal in pigs. Then she drove off to the next farm. Meanwhile, I finished checking up on my new herd of 25 lovely, fluffy snow white goats, and pulled my 15 month old son home in his sled, enjoying the sunshine at a leisurely pace. Once home we enjoyed lunch and a nap. It doesn’t get much better than that, does it? I am convinced that this is exactly the perfect job for me and I feel very fulfilled. Today Will and I spent the afternoon enjoying the fresh air and sunshine as I recorded ear tag numbers and came up with a name for each of the girls. Will loved exploring the pen with the docile and curious goats, and even tried to start a conversation, standing face to face with one of the does and saying “Mooooooooo”. LOL It was so cute and I really couldn’t imagine being anywhere else at that moment.

So please join me in extending a warm welcome to our 26 new residents: Fiji, Diva, Penelope, Scoop, Puff, Peggy, Freckles, Betty, Jett, Janice, Salsa, Frizz, Claudia, Pepper, Margo, Flips, Pixie, Tyra, Polly, Angelique, Capri, Twist, Flora, Dora, Twiggy and Big B.

Til the next adventure,
Tam

Tribute to the Dogfather

This is a painting my BroLo did of my beloved Tony. Rest in peace, Dogfather.

Caroline Area Man Almost Ruins New Year's

Well, Caroline Area Man has done it again.

He claims to have saved Christmas by decorating the helloutta our house when we weren't home. If you want to read the story from HIS side, please visit the link on the left (My BroMo Caroline Area Man).

What he didn't tell you was that although he saved Christmas he nearly ruined New Year's by almost killing my husband.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morn the dogs started making a ruckus. My Dearly Beloved got out of bed and let the dogs out for a piddle. What he didn't realize was that good old Grandma and Grandpa left the gate open when they left that evening. The dogs raced out of the yard after a deer or skunk or coyote or other evil beast. They were yipping and yowling and running like demons into the night. My poor Dearly Beloved ran out into the snowy night after them in his bare feet and underpants. He stood at the end of the sidewalk and yipped into the night til the dogs came running back. He was swearing a blue streak and finally the hounds returned. While he'd been standing on the sidewalk the snow beneath his barefeet melted into a nice pool of water. Once the dogs were safely inside the fence he swung the gate shut. He was standing in a nice pool of water, barefoot, in his skivvies. Somehow the 25,000 Christmas lights hanging on the wire fence shorted out and gave my poor, dear, saint of a husband the jolt of a lifetime. Later he told me he thought he would die there, alone, in the cold, in his skivvies. He said his heart stopped.

Yes, so Caroline Area Man, you did bring the festive spirit to our little home. But you nearly killed off our Sugar Daddy in the process.

Happy New Year everyone!

Tam