Love & Excitement in the Air

As the cooler temperatures and brisk winds of autumn arrive, excitement fills the air. I feel more energized and chores around the farm become easier. The goats and alpacas, and the horses and puppies are frisky—bound to break into running, jumping, dancing fits any moment.

Heading down for the mail yesterday, I heard the thunder of hoof beats behind me as the goat girls dashed together as a herd, following my progress until I turned to watch them. Faced by me, they quickly broke out into playful groups; indeed, although head-butting works best with just two participants, I saw them configure into rippling huddles where many animals faced a center spot and all were ready to butt heads.

The alpacas are extremely playful these days. They will all chase each other around the pasture, or chase whoever is handy. I’ve seen the cria Spencer romping lightly after BullyBob. The poor ol’ goat was running full out; he is used to being the bully, not being bullied. With his twisted horns and stinky yellow-brown face, he approached me for help and I became his safety zone. Bully may not like being chased, but he sure can chase when a female goat hangs by the fence.

Today it was Denise the goat who was flirting the most through the fence. Come dinnertime I brought her into the boys’ area and tried to set up a dinner date for her with Whiskey. BullyBob, of course, was hot on the doe’s heels, but I pulled him up short before he could enter her stall. Denise wound up spending dinnertime with three of our fainter boys: Whiskey, little Joshua, and the junior horndog Brad Pitt.

Molly the momma dog appears to be in heat again as well. With nine fast-growing puppies on her heels, and her weight down after momma-ing so many pups, we are doing all that we can to keep Luther the papa dog away from Miss Molly. The puppies flow between both parents, and spend a good deal of time tailing us around the farm, and chasing the geese and chickens with enthusiasm.

Even little Spencer is feeling the fever of love. In addition to his exuberant romping, I’m sensing that he’s coming of age and experiencing his first sexual awakening.This means reconfiguring the alpacas tomorrow morning. I don’t think it is as simple as moving Spencer in with the boys because he’d then be a prime target for the four others to chase. Hopefully we can divide the home pasture tomorrow, and then only rotate the boys into and out of their stall in shifts, while giving the gals the run of the place 24/7.

Thank goodness we have no male horses on the property! We enjoy watching the mares romp around their respective areas, running, bucking, and kicking when the autumn breezes tickle them into action. And Janet, the filly, is becoming much more vocal; her little high-pitched whinny echoes out from their pasture numerous times a day.

I love the fall, and it appears that I’m in good company. So kick up your heels and join us!

Farm Logo

In designing our farm logo we wanted an image of a tree with broad branches and deep roots. Over time we played with a few different versions and ultimately decided on this tree with its rainbow of branches to indicate the multifaceted nature of our farming enterprise. A complete logo needed to represent our farm, its location, and both its complete and abbreviated names. This version, with its "Precious & Celestial Wonders Organic Farm, Inc." wrapped around the logo, and our initials "P&CW" and location appearing at the bottom filled the bill.

A more casual version shows the tree with grass at its base and the abbreviated version of our farm name at the bottom. We plan to use the standalone tree to eventually represent our farm without the need for the farm name being included. Our thinking is that the standalone tree can be the emblem for eventual product labels.

As for what products we will produce, that has yet to be determined. In addition to the alpaca yarn processed for us by New Era Fiber, and the eggs and milk produced by our animals, we have enjoyed some sinfully delicious homemade goats milk ice cream. Whether we will lean toward food products or body care products (goats milk skin cream can feel divine on thirsty skin) will be decided over time, as we experiment to see what fits our farm best.

Stay tuned to discover the directions in which we will grow...

Tight Spaces

Many of us who are readily motivated by food can understand the intense reaction goats have to proffered food. I swear they lose all reason and just focus on the opportunities to eat places before them. Because of this some of our fainting goats are at risk at feeding time, the Numbers Girls especially. If the fainter gals are crowded around their dinner trough, it is not unusual to see legs pointed sideways signaling that Number Two has fainted en route to her dinner then been run over by her fellow goats. With this in mind, I should not have been surprised yesterday evening when Brad Pitt managed to wedge himself halfway into a fence opening that was far too small for him.

In the evening alpaca shuffle, the boys get returned to their stall and the girls and Spencer are freed to roam the pasture for the night. Once the boys have entered their stall in search of their evening grain, I pull the bottom half of their door closed but don’t fasten it, then quickly release the “screen door” holding back the girls and shift it over to block the boys’ door.

Last night I forgot to remove the girls’ feed tub before opening their door, so when BullyBob and Brad Pitt charged into the stall they clambered up and dove head first into the bin. The screen door got set aside while I tried to save the grain. Using the goats’ horns as handles (and with Bully’s stunted horns this is not always easy), I heaved them out of the trough. As soon as they were clear, I reached over and unhooked the tub trying to save the bit of feed the gals had left on the bottom. Unfortunately I found that the stall door leading into the barn was fastened tight (Goldie likes to lean on the door when she’s inside and sliding the latch over helps keep the door in place).

Turning, I headed out with the grain bin then tried to juggle the greedy goats, the grain bin, and the screen door all at once. The result was that the grain bin landed in the alpaca stall (so that alpaca feed was feeding alpacas), on the floor not far in from the door, and the screen door was set in place with the goats on the pasture side. BullyBob did not make fastening the screen in place exactly easy, indeed I had to hip-check his stinky yellow-brown self against the door while trying to reach past him to fasten the clips. This is not the time of year when anyone wants to get cuddly with BullyBob, well anyone except the girl goats … they moon about on the opposite side of the fence and alert me as to who is ready for dating.

When the screen was fastened, I hustled around the barn to enter the boys’ stall from the inside and pick up the girls’ feed tub. Navigating the gate, the hungry girl goats gathered around the gate, and the seething mass of puppies feeding in the barn’s interior corridor I made it to the boys’ stall just in time to hear an anguished goat wail. I’m familiar with the sound. It pierces the air whenever the bigger goats are ruthlessly butting a smaller, weaker goat. I assumed that Brad or Sting had taken it upon himself to tackle little Hugh Jackman, but I was wrong.

Upon entering the alpaca boys’ stall, I saw that big ol’ Brad Pitt had wedged himself halfway through the “screen door” in pursuit of the alpacas’ grain. Now Brad has not been able to pass through those bars for several weeks now, although Hugh (born the same day) can sometimes still squeeze through. But Brad was in and very tightly. As I said, food is a grand motivator that makes some goats lose all reason.

It probably took 15 to 20 minutes of wrestling with Brad in the fading light and the mud-and-manure slick doorway before I was able to twist his body and inch him back out of the trap he had made for himself. I worked from both sides of the screen, both pushing at his chest and pulling on his back end. He was not a happy goat, but at least he eventually seemed to understand what I was trying to do and after five minutes or so he relaxed when I pushed or pulled, instead of tensing up and pulling forward.

Right after he was freed it occurred to me that I should have taken a photo. Oh well.

Falling

“The ground is much further away than it used to be,” we reply when asked whether we ride the horses, and it is true but Millie is ever eager for an adventure and we are loathe to deprive her again.

Nearly ten days ago we stopped simply hitching bareback lifts from round pen to barn or pasture. Millie is a lady who respects that fearless young riders grow into overly cautious middle-age women. Recognizing that we’ve no easy swing into the saddle left in us, she’ll stand catty-corner to a rock or a pile of logs and allow us to clamber ungracefully onto her back before spiriting us away on her long legs with her smooth gait.

Exchanging the halter and lead for an actual bridle with a soft rubber snaffle, then tacking her up with pad and Western saddle, two girths and a breast collar, we defy gravity by lifting ourselves (that being me, myself, and I) from ground to saddle with hardly a grunt. Okay, so Millie was standing downhill on the driveway, but still we are impressed with the small feat. She begins walking away while we’re still fumbling for the far stirrup, then waits patiently when asked to Ho!

Soon we’re moving off downhill, surefooted in a style I’ve not known in years, her Saddle Horse gait moving my midriff in that marvelous dance this body had nearly forgotten. Passing rocks, the rusting flagpole, grazing goats (without spooking), we descend to the valley with exhilarating ease. On the flat we inscribe figure-eight’s and try our luck at a serpentine—but Millie is having no such nonsense. The field is open, who are we to be acting as it’s enclosed?

Following the path along the newest fence line into the woods she slides into that gait that mimics a trot but without a shred of roughness, the rider might as well be napping in an easy chair. En route Millie begins to canter, slips immediately into a buck and is pulled back to that place where I’m confident all within a moment. Had a watching goat blinked, she would have missed the exchange.

Around the front field, avoiding the soft earth of the newly-filled waterline trench, drifting toward the barn uphill but willing to stay on the flat as requested with another pop!, canter, buck sequence neatly frustrated and this middle-age rider wonders Why not? The poor gal has not been on an adventure since carrying the visiting Caitie through the woods, if she wants to run along the hillside we need only hand in the saddle like a sack of sweet potatoes. Where’s the harm in that?

Almost as quickly as the thoughts have been processed, we’ve granted Millie her head and one stride, two, three we’re cantering when whoops! She’s bucking for keeps now. We stay on once, twice, but with the horse twisting beneath us we understand that parting is a sure thing. So much decision making is crammed into the next split-second—where are the rocks (everywhere!), where will we be if we hang on longer, how close is the water-line trench, how little impact are we having with bit and reins, and ah here’s a grassy spot let go and fly down in a clean arc, and Ooof! Shoulder meets ground as we’ve instinctively tucked and rolled, and Millie’s hoof beats echo as she races up the hillside without us.

Before she’s even reached the first pasture we are up and walking gingerly in her wake. That fear that has kept us earthbound for so long has been faced and realized. We are impressed with our own ability to analyze the situation and react; life here in the Southern humidity has kept our brain on a much slower track for so long we had nearly forgotten the exhilaration that comes of split-second decision-making. We twist our neck and inscribe a circle with each arm; nothing’s broken. That shoulder blade we landed on may well be sore tonight, but falling onto the rocky ground of Wilson County has proven quite manageable, thank you very much.

Millie is standing by the driveway gate, commiserating with Lucy and Stella when I arrive on foot. Only the near-side rein has even dropped and I scoop it up neatly and we head back to that spot from whence I’d mounted from the ground. We’ll get back on before Millie learns that she can call the shots and for the second time in one afternoon we step from earth to saddle without more help than the inclining geography.

This time Miss Millie stands while we settle ourselves, then moves off smartly to return to the field where she had just bucked me off. Energetically walking and oh-so-smoothly trotting at my request, Millie revisits the place where she’d taken the upper hand but tries no more tricky moves, and the ride provides us with the entertaining little adventure that we’d so long been promising her.

A quarter hour later we return to the barn. Although I’ve scouted surfaces where I might set the heavy saddle overnight, I find the whole rig pulls off neatly and I am quite able to carry it uphill to the storage trailer to put away properly. Cooling down Millie, fetching hay, and completing the evening chores are all done gingerly—expecting more stiffness than we actually experience. It’s quite gratifying.

Indeed it takes until bedtime for agony to be realized, by which time we can no longer take a full breath (a quarter-breath would be welcome over the ensuing two or three days) and achieving a horizontal position is anything but restful. At least Millie is not here to see the effects of her little stunt.

Nine days out I only resort to ibuprofen at day’s end, when I am tired and the little aches add up to pain. And I have learned to trust by instincts: indeed, the ground is much farther away than it was some thirty years ago, but that won’t stop me. Millie and I have trails in our future, adventures if you will; I just won’t give her the reins to drop her nose to her toes and launch me into space. She surprised me that day, probably because I’ve left her so long as a pasture ornament. We will make time for riding so that that will not happen again.

Milking Trials

We have become accustomed to having fresh goat milk on hand even though only Jennifer is being milked consistently and Cocoa slips in and out of the Mommy-Share Plan (whereby she may still nurse her kid part-time). Jennifer, our "deer colored" tan-and-brown doe, settled into the routine pretty quickly and after several days milking time with Jennifer became pleasant, even enjoyable. Adding Cocoa to the mix caused that peace to evaporate.

Cocoa is a strong-willed doe who complies with requests when it suits her (such as coming in at feeding time) but becomes downright ornery when she disagrees. Although she was semi-willing to participate in milking at first, over time her attitude soured to the point that every attempt is a fight. And she is much stronger than I. Although I’ve begun to dream about a fully-functional milking stand, with side rails to restrict side-to-side dance steps and perhaps a bar across the rump to limit jumping and bucking, my carpentry skills are limited and my time even more limited.

Yesterday I was running against the clock and let Cocoa go without milking after she had put up a good fight. Between having a sore shoulder and off-farm commitments, I was not up for the struggle necessary. I promised myself that I would install side rails that afternoon (after fixing the spot I had finally discovered where the young bucks slip easily out of the home pasture, and completing all other chores of course). That I did install one side rail is an accomplishment, and it certainly helped today.

This morning I woke to rolling thunder and rain pounding on our metal roof. When I saw no signs of the deluge abating, I proceeded with my chores in the rain. The rain jacket and muck boots did help for the first hour or so, and I even sat to milk at our outdoor stand without getting wet (at first). Since I already have an umbrella in place to shade the milking doe’s head from sunlight, extending that to provide her with full coverage was easily managed by adding a torn-open dog food bag over the butt-end of the stand. (Most feed bags have plastic linings, but our dog kibble comes in nicely-slick bags, good for trash collecting and other chores.)

Cocoa was willing to come to the milking stand and place her head through the stanchion so she could reach the sweet feed waiting for her, but she was not willing to stand still without a fight. Amazingly the side rail helped a good deal. When I abandoned all hopes of getting clean milk for human consumption, I let her soak a foot in the milk pail as I gathered her milk for crafts. (I’d like to try my hand at making goat’s milk body lotion.) Since her udders were engorged after yesterday's missed milking, Cocoa was producing a good deal of milk and quickly. I’m guessing we had about a pound of milk in the bucket when she thought to kick it over. Too bad no puppies were underfoot; they would have enjoyed it. With the rain pouring down around us, I finished up the milking session by just squirting Cocoa's milk onto the stand, then I stopped at a moment when she was agreeably calm and set her free to nurse her kid.

Discouraged by the rain—I was good and soaked by then—I would have let Jennifer wait until later for milking, but she was eager to come out and get to work. Yesterday we had had such a successful milking session, she had been decidedly calm and willing, that I was hoping for a repeat today. No such luck. When I had put her up the night before she was showing signs of being in heat, and this morning she clearly had other things on her mind besides milking. While her milk sang against the sides of the pail, Jennifer swatted her tail vehemently and danced with her hind feet—letting me know in no uncertain terms that my efforts were unappreciated. I did get a half-pound of milk for crafting before turning her loose, whereupon she ran straight to the home pasture to smooch up BullyBob through the fence. He was mighty pleased to see her.

Although I had planned to try delaying breeding until October, Jennifer became my second concession. Over the weekend I had granted Ms. Isobel a 36-hour date with Whiskey after she had nearly torn down the home pasture fence trying to get through it to BullyBob. (Unfortunately for Bully, she’s a fainter and he’s a Nigerian Dwarf. Both Isobel and Denise miscarried kids sired by BullyBob not too long ago, so I had no plans to pair them again. Whiskey is our number one fainter buck and we’re hoping he’s ready for the job.) Now Jennifer wanted time with Bully and I lat her have it.

At this time, Bully and Jennifer are isolated in a stall for the day (or longer). She was randy enough that she allowed both Sting and Whiskey to mount her (after Bully) while I was still trying to separate her and BullyBob from the herd. (Poor Sting was confused. At first he rushed to nurse; he’s been away from his dam for some weeks now. Then he shifted into breeding mode.Finally he found the stall door shut in his face and himself standing outside it with Whiskey and the other animals.) Jennifer was ready, more than ready if that's possible, for a hot date this morning. If she conceives, we can expect her to kid in mid-February.

I guess I’m just a soft touch. When does are so insistent, I’m inclined to cave to their desires, but I need to regulate the pairings. We would be happy to have kids arriving a week or two apart through the late winder and early spring and we can achieve that if only I’ll stand my ground. At least we are more knowledgeable this year and should suffer fewer losses to the cold.

Come on, goat gals, give me a break already.

Puppy Escapades

Late yesterday afternoon, as I was serving the animals’ evening meals, I handled the pups a little. As working dogs their primary bond is with the livestock, so we don’t catch them up for cuddling or playing as one might another puppy. They do get individualized attention, though, when it’s time for immunizations, monthly flea and tick treatments, or worming. Yesterday was the end of a three-day course of a light-duty wormer. When coming up to the barn, I had left Heidi gathering and feeding five of the pups but expected them to follow along imminently. After catching up and treating the four dogging daddy Luther at the barn, I looked down the driveway but did not see the others swarming up the drive as I had expected, so I went about fetching hay for the ruminants.

On one trip I paused outside the barn to admire the view. Our land rolled out before me displaying alpaca boys capering in the late day sunshine, spotted horses happily munching hay, and the fine new four-board fence Jeff completed last week to keep our animals contained and out of the road. The acreage across the highway was newly hayed, artistically dotted with rolled bales that cast shadows in the late-day light. The tractor and baler that had been prowling those acres for endless hours had been put up; they sat in repose alongside the scenic red barn. Feeling satisfied and thoroughly happy with my situation, I admired the scene for a moment when my eye was caught by a trail of white animals crossing the field—a larger animal followed by a trail of smaller ones. It took probably the space of a heartbeat for my mood to turn from satisfied to aghast: what I was admiring had to be Heidi and a passel of the pups!

Goodness gracious, what was Heidi thinking?! Certainly the puppies slide through fences as if they’re not there and were seen Sunday in the yard next door, but to lead them across the busy roadway—I could not condone such risk-taking. That said, they did look quite beautiful streaming along in the late-day glow—almost picture-worthy, but I had no time for photography. I had to finish up the chores and get after the wayward lot.

In order to grain the alpaca boys without pushy goat boys horning in, I had to first distract the goats with some grain of their own. A smattering of sweet goat chow offered in a tub near the gate would do, so I hustled off to accomplish that task. Perhaps I erred by cutting through the alpaca boys’ stall en route to the goats. I did leave feed for the alpacas, but I did so quietly to escape the notice of the goats. Too quietly, I quickly learned, for when I stopped to pour grain for the goats I had hardly bent over than a full-on tackle by an exuberant alpaca sent me sprawling. Luckily I had dispatched some goat feed before the fall, so I was not trampled by stinky, greedy goat boys. Shawn looked surprised; apparently he had been following closely on my heels and had not expected me to stop short—so I had to forgive him for what was clearly an accident. Still and all, my head was ringing from the impact.

After dusting myself off and settling the alpacas, I grabbed a bucket with the necessary worming tools—medicine, syringes for measuring oral dosages, pen and paper for recording who got what, and most importantly the wand for reading each puppy’s RFID chip. (Now that they’ve grown and the litters have commingled—Heidi’s two with Molly’s seven—I can no longer tell one puppy from another. Certainly they each have distinctive markings, but I have not the brain power to commit the variations to memory and must rely on their chips for positive identification.)

Hopping into the little Trail Wagon, I raced down to the front gate and parked. I would cross the street on foot and see what I could see. Having never actually passed the guardrail and fencing into the neighbor’s field, I was not sure of how exactly to proceed. Standing in the breakdown lane by the guardrail, I admired Heidi and her brood. They had passed all the round bales, crossed a stream, and entered the next field with vegetation so tall that only Heidi was visible. She’s a fine teacher, even if this lesson was not one I wanted for the pups. Cars and trucks breezed by me infrequently as I pondered my next step.

If I were to trespass upon the hayfield, would I have time to cross the field before losing sight of Heidi? And how would the farming neighbors whose acquaintance I have yet to make feel about me traipsing across their land? I don’t know when hunting season begins (or began) but the sounds of gunfire have washed across the land for several days now. Did I want to be wandering on unfamiliar ground where I might be mistaken for game?

My thoughts were interrupted when Theresa pulled up behind me in her new car. When she offered to go put on her sneakers and come back to help me track the dogs (now mere specks appearing and disappearing along a fence line), I decided—no, I would not chase after the dogs further. Heidi would bring them home soon enough. Then I noticed that the pups from the barn had followed me downhill and now spotted me out in the roadway. That sent me packing for home; I had no desire to manage more puppies by the road.

Although I have yet to figure out where the parents are slipping through the fence, I would find those vulnerable places without the dogs on my heels. After crossing back through our gate and greeting the pups, I thought to call back across the way to announce “doggie dinnertime” in hopes that those words might hasten Heidi’s return. It did not.

Finally, after I had given up, finished chores, and gone inside, I heard a car horn honking as if at an animal in the road. Heidi! I raced outside to see her trotting along the breakdown lane with pups in tow, then turning up our drive. Since I had (I thought) escape-proofed the front gate I hustled down to meet the group and to welcome them back in. Oddly, Heidi had only four pups with her; I had expected five. About two minutes later I heard the calls of a pup in distress—the sound seemed to be coming from the hayfield across the way. The crying would start, sound briefly, and then stop by the time I had turned to listen or started back down the drive. Choosing experience over compassion, I set about identifying and worming the four pups Heidi had brought with her. Then I escorted the crew (which had grown in number) back towards the barn to put away the bucket.

At the barn I turned back and thought I saw a white speck in the middle of the hayfield. Staring until I was able to discern movement, I deduced that I was seeing the missing pup—the one whose RFIP tag ends in the number 780, and the most elusive of the lot. The pup was moving steadily towards home, so I went back to grab the medicinal bucket and marched down to meet her. I still was faced with the problems of entering the field across the way, but I face one obstacle at a time so chose to worry about that only after I had reached said fence. Of course I was stopped and distracted by other chores as I went—getting this for the horses and that for the chickens—so by the time I actually reached and passed the house, I saw a pup gamely galloping uphill along the fence line to Stella’s horse pasture. After chasing her down, number 780 was identified, medicated, and released. Only then did I put away my wares for the night (up in the barn) and head back down to the house amid gathering darkness.