Monday, January 29, 2007

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?

Monday, January 22, 2007

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

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

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

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Tribute to the Dogfather


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

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

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