A Sunday Surprise

On Sunday morning, May 3rd, I walked up to the barn with minimal expectations of a new birth. Both Sarah Bernhardt and Caitlyn seemed so determined to stay pregnant that I was a bit surprised to hear the cries as I entered the barn, cries indicating that one had finally kidded. The middle stall was still sloppily divided into two portions: with the big fainter does (and Raymond) on the inside portion and Numbers One, Two, Three; Gretchen; and Sarah Bernhardt (formerly Number Four but renamed by a clever teen in Seattle for the famously-swooning actress) on the side opening into the home pasture. Upon examination, I found that Caitlyn had borne twins—a ruggedly handsome tan-and-white, blue-eyed buckling and a little brown-and-white guy whom she had not even bothered to clean off—and Sarah had delivered a fine little black-and-white buckling. Having three newborns was an exciting start to an otherwise-usual day.

The morning followed the usual pattern: wake and head out with a plan for the day (we had had plans to go visiting that morning) only to rethink the plan upon meeting reality. Immediately I emptied the stall of extraneous goats, with four piling into the pasture and a half-dozen trampling through the barn to browse in the woods, then set about reconfiguring the stall. The divider was pitched at an angle of maybe 60-degrees because the big fainter girls continued to climb the once-straight wall in pursuit of the food set our for the Little ‘Uns. I cut the ties binding the divider to opposite walls and struggled and strained until I’d managed to free the piece of fencing that had been securely anchored by a couple of rocks wedged at its base—wedged in, covered with hay, and long-forgotten until necessity unearthed the effective anchors.

The new mamas needed fresh water and a sweet, warm treat, but first the littlest kid needed to be cleaned off and fed. Caitlyn had made no move to tend to him. The placenta clung to his coat like glue, refusing to be wiped away, and Mama was not eager to take the kid to her teat, so I bundled him up and made a dash for the house. Once inside we cleaned him up in the bathroom sink, scrubbing at the placenta with a washcloth while the kid reclined in a warm bath. In the kitchen we set about hunting for the bag of Kid Colostrum that had been put away a bit too safely—even after consulting with the angel who had recently managed to instill logical order upon our kitchen the bag never turned up. So a can of goat milk was opened, milk warmed, and a bottle prepared but our little brown-and-white guy was less that enthusiastic about nursing from the bottle.

Back to the barn we took him, where he managed to nurse from Mama’s teat after we’d chased her down and forced her to stand in place for the duration. Once the little fella’s belly was rounded and full, we released Mama; treated the new mothers to warm oatmeal with Karo syrup, raisins, and slices of fresh pear; added fresh hay and bedding to the now full-size stall; and bowed out. Or ought I say butted out?

That was some six days ago and the runt has yet to be welcomed by either mama. Indeed, both butt him away vigorously; one day I even found the little guy in the water bucket: someone, Caitlyn I presume, and butted him so strongly that his little body flew up and came down in the water bucket. Luckily the water level was low and he stood tall enough that his nose was reaching over the lip of the bucket when I found him. He survives because both mamas will allow me to hold them still while they eat so that he can suckle. The stillness soon turns to a wrestling match and the mamas are freed as soon as the runt has gotten a modicum of milk into him. The little scrapper is a survivor and, while he’s not growing nearly as fast as his hulky brother, will manage to live long enough to switch to solid food that he can forage for himself.

Yesterday the boys finally received names, again courtesy of the young woman in Seattle; again we have goats named for movie stars. (Oh, I ought to add that we did receive movie-star names for the four fainter girls previously known by numbers, but only Sarah was named because Number One, Number Two, and Number Three fit so well.) The runt, who turned out to be light cocoa colored with blue eyes, bears the name of George Clooney. (I call him George, and his diminutive size and round head remind me more of George Burns.) His twin, thrice his size, is called Brad; named for Brad Pitt. And Sarah’s little one—who is maturing well, but more slowly than Brad—is called Hugh, for Hugh Jackman. (My cultural illiteracy spreads far enough that I cannot even match a face to that name.)

Hugh has floppy ears and a slightly rounded face, leading me to wonder if his daddy might be a full Boer or a Boer-percentage goat. We have few photos of him because, although he’s quite pretty with white speckling at the tops of his ears and a little patch of pink-and-white across his muzzle, I cannot see him clearly enough in photos. (Having dropped my camera some three-too-many times, I’m reduced to camera-phone images while waiting for a new camera to be delivered.)

I like that all of the kids are quite personable and will seek out human attention when I ignore them. Even skittish Sarah will stand to be petted—lightly and briefly. And Caitlyn now accepts that feeding George is part of the deal when she enjoys a meal placed before her. (All of our goats are as motivated by food as am I.) What the farm will do with three more bucklings is beyond me; only Brad appears to be stud material.