Assaulted!

Our farm became my personal school of hard knocks about two weeks back. Generally I only get hurt when I do something foolish; I guess I’ve just been more foolish than usual of late.


On November 15, when Pamela & Leslie arrived, I settled our larger milk goats in the round pen down in front, then sectioned off a smaller enclosure within that so that I could handle them. Catching them to load into the car had been quite the challenge—well, Pamela was initially caught with food, but when we went to load her sidekick into the car I managed to loosen my grip for just a moment, and that was all it took for her to escape. I’m guessing we pursued her for three-quarters of an hour before the owner suggested that I take Leslie instead of the spotted goat we’d been chasing. He generously offered me a discounted price to accept the exchange and I readily accepted. How could I not? And so, Leslie was wrestled into the back of the car with Pamela. (Of course, at the time they were simply the black goat with white ears and the brown goat with white ears; it took most of the drive home to settle on their names.)

When I cornered them at home, I knew the goats would not be happy with me, but I hoped to win them over in short order. Ha! Nothing doing. Indeed, by crouching down to their level to fasten collars, leads, and bells, I opened myself up for Leslie to treat me like a goat. She ducked her head, stepped forward, and wham! She butted me right between the eyes. I rolled over backwards with a yelp but declined to loosen my grip on the baling twine that held her. The experience was painful for me—I wondered if perhaps my nose had broken—and that was when I decided to let her bell just get knotted onto the dangling lead instead of trying to fix it properly to her collar.

When the next day I awoke to find I did not have two black eyes, I realized that I had been lucky. Leslie had let me off easily, after making sure I learned that she wasn’t to be trifled with. I learned; I learned.

The farm was good to me for about a week and a half, then JoJo the gander beat me over the head with his left wing that might as well have been a yardstick made of solid bone. (See “These Cats Rock!”) That was several days ago now, but the back of my head continues to be tender and sensitive to touch. When my sister-in-law commented that the wing bones of birds are hollow, I found it difficult to believe based upon my experience.

Then yesterday I made the mistake of leaning through a gate to clip a lead on Luther, our papa dog, when the area was roiling in puppies. I was unprepared when he became infected with the youngsters’ excitement and jumped up. He caught my face with a forepaw; that threw me for a loop. I felt his claws rake across my skin from my eye down my cheek and found it hard to believe that the only marks were a single cut above my eye and one scrape down my face. They hurt like the dickens when I cleaned them up later that evening, but they should heal neatly and in short order.

As if being blindsided with Luther’s paw wasn’t enough for one evening, when I went to feed the alpacas and the dwarf goats, BullyBob—our Nigerian Dwarf buck—assaulted me. Ducking his head, he full-on butted me in the knees and nearly knocked me down. Had I not been located where I could catch myself with a wall, I would have been on the ground in a flash. Angry, I knocked his head against the same wall that had saved me. Before I had a chance to feel bad for hitting back I found out that my response only excited him further. I cannot begin to describe how gross it feels to have a pee-brown-faced buck snorting and rushing up to get close to me. (See photo, above.) Ugh! In self defense, I pinned Bully to the wall with my hip while Spencer, the lone young alpaca male, ate in peace. A couple of times Bully slipped free and charged me again, but I was prepared for his foolishness after that first time when he took me unawares.

Finally, when I went to tuck the Tennessee Fainting goats in for the night, they crowded about my ankles, making it nearly impossible to get their feed into the waiting troughs and nearly knocking me down in the process. Luckily they do not take offense easily, for I believe I uttered a few choice epithets when I wanted them to move.

When I got inside last evening it was a relief to be out of harm’s way for a time. Who woulda thunk so many would get their licks in over the course of just one evening?

Ashland City Adventure

On November 20, two of Molly's pups moved to Ashland City: Pistachio and Jethro. They were a purchased as a birthday present for a nice woman named Amanda. Her dad said that she'd been talking of getting goats and that she needed guardians first. When he was at the Ashland City Farmers Co-op , the manager, Benny (the man from whom I'd purchased Leslie & Pamela, the Nubian goat gals) told him that I had Junior Livestock Guardians for sale, so he called P&CW Farm.

That day I was rushing, rushing, trying to get errands done in a timely manner. After loading the pups into a crate in the back of my brand new, dirt-cheap, knock-about farm truck, I headed out to the City Clerk to get tags for it. (The regular truck is unavailable to me too often, so I'd shopped the prior day and found a tattered truck cheap enough that if it broke down there'd be little lost.) Tags attached, I stopped for grain then pushed the poor little old truck to the limit trying to get her to Ashland City to meet the buyer at a specified time.

Now, the 1985 pickup's speedometer only goes to 85, so I should have known to not push the old gal, but the speed limit here is 70 on much of the highway and I was racing against the clock, so we flew. My first hint that we were in trouble came when I took a wrong turn and pulled off at an exit. At the stop sign at the base of the exit ramp, the truck died. She started up again well enough, but I'd been warned. Did I heed the warning? Not a chance; I had puppies to deliver! (With the growing dogs eating a full 150 pounds of kibble each week, these pups needed to be placed sooner rather than later.)

Pulling off in Ashland City the truck stalled again. In the few miles we had to travel to Amanda's farmhouse, the little truck went from stalling every time I touched the brakes, to stalling every time I slowed down. That meant every bend in the road and every turn. Good thing she always started right up again.

Jethro and Pistachio were glad to get out of the dog crate and investigate their new home. I looked around and approved of the surroundings, then left them off. We didn't get far, just down the street, before it became apparrent that this little truck wasn't going to even limp to the closest garage, so we coasted down a winding road on a hill and pulled off at the first opportunity.

It was there, while waiting for AAA that I realized I hadn't even stopped to snap a going-away photo of the pups! So I took a picture of the truck again, to mark the adventure.

(And yes, even with repair bills, I still have a little truck that I can use anytime for farm chores--for cheap. That's good because more would not have fit into the budget!)

Leslie & Pamela Come to Our Farm

When Marcie the milk goat arrived earlier this month, I promised her companionship in short order; however, she had to wait a good two weeks before her new companions arrived. Marcie, a white Saanen/Nubian cross, is our largest goat; she needed companions of similar size. Craigslist Nashville had a listing for Nubian does born in January who had been “running with a buck” and so may be pregnant. Marcie is not shy; she readily speaks what’s on her mind and the girl is always thinking it seems.


When her companions arrived, Pamela Chrysanthemum and Leslie Lupine, Marcie accepted them but became no less needy for several days. Pamela and Leslie were terrified of me when they first arrived and I had all I could do to get a collar on Leslie and a bell on Pamela. (I tried to bell Leslie, but the string failed when I was tying it onto her collar, so I just tied it onto the piece of twine I’d left dangling to make her easier to catch. I needn’t have worried: she managed to lose the bell within a day and I have not made any move to touch either of the new goats since that day.)

Luckily the three does have formed a herd. They travel together. Marcie comes to be milked each day and Pamela and Leslie wait for her return. In the evening I can put a lead rope on Marcie to bring her into the enclosure down front fashioned for these gals, and Pamela and Leslie follow right along. Pamela’s bell rings to let me know where she is, so I need not even turn to look for the Nubian does.

I think Pamela and Leslie are beginning to trust me. I rarely look their way let alone make eye contact. They have discovered that I will provide then step away so that they may eat, or I will provide an open gate then step away so that they may pass through unhindered. If they are pregnant, they shouldn’t kid before March, I’m guessing, by which time they may accept me. I’m reminded of the Tennessee Fainting goats and of how skittish they were when they arrived. Once she kidded, Gwen, the herd queen, learned that I could be useful—for treats, food, neck and back-rubs, whatever. Pamela and Leslie will learn as well.

Until then, I’m glad that Marcie has companionship and that the three get along well. As for the Nubian does’ fancy names, well, just look at their coloring: the complicated patterns on their faces told me that they needed something more than a single name, so I picked flowers for them. (That's Pam in the foreground and Leslie standing behind her.) In time we may have Leslie or Leslie Lu and Pam or Pammy or Chrissy. For now I’m partial to their full names: Pamela Chrysanthemum and Leslie Lupine.

These Cats Rock!

Barney and Annabelle have a new fan club: me. In addition to being social and welcoming any time I enter the barn area, they’ve proven useful. This evening while waiting for me to get to the task of milking, Barney not only presented me with a dead mouse (and received copious praise), but also I saw him take on JoJo. Yes!

I may have mentioned our mean geese before. In fact, I am quite sure that that phrase has crossed these lips before. Although I did save the geese when the puppies recently became too rambunctious for JoJo and LaLa, I usually observe that almost everyone needs saving from the geese now and again. This weekend I can even add myself to that list. How pathetic is that?

These days the geese are enclosed in a pasture with the older male alpacas, the Nigerian Dwarf goats, and Caitlyn a Tennessee Fainting goat who opted to stay put when her herd last moved from that pasture. In general the animals all get along—until grain appears. Yesterday evening I broadcast some grain into the plastic feed bunk outdoors and collected the requisite goats for my trouble. Next the alpacas received grain behind a closed door so that they could eat in peace before the pushy goats stretch to their fullest to reach into the alpacas’ feed tubs.

When I exited through the pasture, the geese were worrying the poor goats (who can generally take care of themselves, thank you very much) without respite, so I reached down and scooped up JoJo under my right arm. As I pulled him to me, he managed to unfold his wings, and then he began beating me with them—hard. I found it difficult to believe that those wings had such power, but after what felt like being hit over the head with a full-size leg bone (human, equine, bovine, whatever—BIG) nearly five times, I let JoJo loose and tried to recover.

Now I was not seeing stars or anything, but my eyes teared and I was a tad disoriented. I considered texting JoJo’s namesake who might have been entertained to know that the little goose had successfully assaulted me, but let the moment pass. Today my head is still quite tender and I am reminded of JoJo’s attack each time I move to brush my hair back or pull up a hood.

So this evening when I saw Barney streak past the hissing JoJo and into the alpaca boys’ stall I felt for the cat; however, not twenty seconds later I heard JoJo squawk and turned in time to see Barney zipping through the fence—having successfully got the drop on that goose. Go Barney!

Between the mouse-present, the goose attack, and the cats’ general friendliness, I am totally thrilled to have them here. Barney & Annabelle rock!

P&CW's Judith TwilightStar

On the bright, sunny Sunday afternoon of November 8, 2009, Vanne’s unusual behavior caught my attention and gave me reason to believe she might be in labor. In addition to her sway-backed posture, then present for weeks at the end of her pregnancy, she was alternately lying down and standing up, often holding her tail up in a flag, and paying more attention to something within than outside of her. When I tried to get Goldie Rose and Lili GrayClouds to head in for the night, Goldie was resolute in her refusal to abandon her pasture mate. When I realized that Goldie must be staying to watch over Vanne, and to provide her some measure of safety during the birthing process, I stopped trying to usher her indoors. Goldie stayed close to Vanne providing alpaca support, and Lili stayed close to her mother.


Along with each wave of contractions came a glimpse of a black nose encased in a slippery sac. The nose appeared and disappeared a few times before the full head emerged, then the spindly long forelegs. When Vanne took to walking around the pasture with the head and legs dangling behind her I sensed that something was amiss. For one, it appeared that the head was below the legs and tilted in such a way as to signify that the cria was emerging upside-down, or spine-down and belly-up. A call to Thistledown Alpacas reached voicemail, so I hurried into the house to find the text on alpaca neonatology housed in my office. The literature was clear: if indeed the cria was turned upside down, well then I was facing one of the rarest birth complications, and one that is exceedingly difficult to correct. So I called Theresa next door.

“Hey there, would either of you like to come over to play midwife in the home pasture with me?” I asked. Practically as soon as I closed the phone, Tony appeared. Thank heavens for Tony: he is calm and steady, practical and gentle, level-headed and experienced. True he likely had no experience in delivering alpacas, but his ability to generalize his youthful experiences with cows would prove invaluable yet again.

Vanne had moved to a patch of bare ground, so I was trying to strew fresh straw about her when Tony entered the pasture. Dusk was gathering rapidly but we had enough light to study Vanne’s situation and, lying down as she was, the cria appeared to be positioned properly—contrary to my earlier assessment. This was a huge relief to me; however, as we watched Vanne experienced more contractions with the cria making no further progress along the birth canal.

Another call, this time to Ruth Fuqua, President of the Tennessee Alpaca Association, owner of Hickory Bluff Farms (which is "just down the road" in Mt. Juliet), and co-owner of the New Era Fiber Mill. She suggested the same thing Tony had, that the cria was likely stuck at the shoulders and the dam could use a bit of assistance. I was concerned with how fragile I understood alpacas to be and Ruth granted that this was not a cow and I need not bring out the tractor and use chains to pull the cria loose. A gentle but firm manual pull during a contraction might be just what Vanne needed. I got off the phone as another contraction started, placed my gloved hands on the slippery cria, and tugged. A dark form slipped free of its dam and slid onto the fresh straw around my knees!

Vanne was tired and allowed Tony and me to peel the birth sac off of her little one. We admired her new cria’s extraordinarily long legs, noted that the hooves were even less well-developed than Lili’s had been—indeed they seemed to be all pad and no hoof, and determined that the new arrival was female. Each time the cria attempted to stand, she wound up tumbling further downhill and I decided that ‘twas time for the mamas to take their young in for the night.

Tony stayed and helped until we got the gals and their crias settled into separate stalls indoors, with Goldie’s Spencer free to roam outside. By this time Vanne was humming with consternation and it took me the better part of a day to realize that she was objecting to being closed in apart from Goldie. By the time I had resolved that trauma for Vanne, her cria was fully in charge of those spidery legs of hers and could romp and skip about without tumbling over at all.

Beginning the new cria’s name was simple: Judith Ann; this dark little alpaca, who appeared to be colored like her dam whose color is best described as maroon, would carry the name of a dear friend of ours, Judy, and make her proud. Although Phyllis said that we ought to name her for Tony, and both Toni and Antonia are pretty names, Judith Ann was the name next in line for important offspring. Then, just as Lili GrayClouds was named for the bleak weather enveloping the earth at the time of her arrival, Judith Ann needed a similar descriptor. Above our heads the sky was blanketed with bright stars, and the evening’s chill had descended around us. For some days I was stuck on Judith of the Twilight Gloaming, a name that even I could recognize was too much. At some point Judith TwilightStar entered my consciousness and sounded right. Thus, P&CW’s Judith TwilightStar was born and named.

Meowing for Milk

Barney and Annabelle have come around since they first arrived. They now understand the significance of milking time and eagerly show up to check out the spoils. In the photo Barney came directly out of the rafters, not stopping to wipe away the cobwebs on his head. Annabelle enjoys the milk until Barney appears, then she allows herself to be pushed aside by her companion. Tonight for some reason Barney enjoyed his fill of milk then wandered away, and when Annabelle investigated she avoided drinking from the feed scoop / milk bowl. Perhaps she did this because the scoop had been thoroughly cleaned by Luther's tongue the prior evening. For some reason these cats are not crazy about our dogs. At least they no longer seem to be bothered by a canine presence, of which I am glad.

It's nice having cats around again. I like being meowed at in the barn and sought out to dispense a bit of kitty love. Plus, both of these cats have richly satisfying, throaty purrs.

Prince Eric and his princess, Kimberly

Prince Eric has been with us since he was hatched out by the broody hen last April. He has grown into a fine young rooster who manages to coexist with Pretty Boy--our original rooster, probably because the young'uns keep pretty much to themselves. For some weeks they liked to hang around in the relative security of the home pasture, but the advent of growing pups being pastured there and the visit by the chicken hawk now finds them moved.

More often they'll be outside the home pasture, sometimes within the vicinity of Pretty Boy and his gals (and Lawrence, our guinea cock) but far enough away to pose no threat. All the chickens like to shadow the horses for what better treat can one want on a chilly day (or in summer on a warm day) than a steaming fresh pile of horse manure? After all horses don't fully digest the grain, so the steaming piles are rather like a bowl of oatmeal might be for a person. Warm, grain-filled, goodness.

Now, we don't tend to name the chickens as a rule because we cannot tell them apart. Pretty Boy came with his name and it fit until the young roo began to look fresher and prettier. We didn't want to have two Pretty Boys but with all that finery what were we to call him? Somehow Prince came to mind and the name stuck. Now that his sole remaining hen has begun to lay eggs, he needed a more complete name. Both Todd and Eric were bandied about (we want Prince to be a compassionate male and he doesn't have any hair, like our friends Todd and Eric); somehow Eric stuck. And there you have the story of Prince Eric.

Prince Eric can be a tad comical now that he's begun to crow. In the photo (above) he has his ruff fluffed up and his neck arched as he prepares to sound off. As pretty as he is, I am still used to Pretty Boy doing the crowing and find Prince Eric's efforts amusing--and fun to watch. The way his young feathers glisten and gleam, why Pretty Boy must be feeling like an old fart around this young cock.

In the last photo is Kimberly, the only survivor of the half-dozen Buff Orpington pullets we purchased at the Farmer's Co-op in April. Her sisters fell prey to dogs, hawks, and possibly coyotes, as did the pullet chicks hatched out with Prince. Kimberly got her name because she is young, pretty, agile, and full of promise--like a former colleague's athletic daughter Kimberly. A few days ago I found her nesting in the hay placed in the hay rack on the wall of Spencer-the-young-alpaca's stall. She held her place even as I gently added more hay to the rack, but after she had disappeared I reached up and found one nicely-shaped medium-sized egg. You go, Kimberly!

I want to get more young'uns to keep this pair company, but I keep putting this off until I can get a chicken tractor built--something I never seem to find time to finish. Hang in there, kids, company's coming.

Annabelle & Barney

Annabelle and Barney came to us sometime last week from a Tullahoma couple planning to move and needing to downsize their cat population of thirteen. Each is short-haired, neutered, good-natured, and reputed to be an excellent mouser. Twas the latter claim that hooked us. Of late the mice have been running the barn come sundown. Those "animal-proof" garbage cans (feed bins) have been chewed through as have the hot-pepper-laden hole patches I applied a few months ago. The evening I stuck around to see Marcie settled in, I saw more mice than I cared to--sampling feed from the trough at my side, scurrying along boards on the way to somewhere, and being entirely brazen in their behavior. I called Sherry in Tullahoma, eager to have the new mousers installed in our barn. She appeared with them only a day or two later.

Barney (who had been known as Dooley until his planned move to P&CW Farm, when he was renamed Barney because--duh--he'll live in the barn) is large and black. Annabelle (whose name was never tampered with as she was a later addition to the moving plan) is similarly large and mostly black with white on her face, throat, legs and belly. They look well and settled in here in short order.

Although I housed them in a dog crate set in the stall with Goldie, Lili, and Marcie at first, I would let them out during the day after closing the outer stall doors to exclude any interested animals and to contain Annabelle and Barney. They took to watching for me and visiting when I came by, and seemed interested in their surroundings. The morning I made the mistake of leaving an alpaca in the stall with them, I saw Annabelle charge straight up the wall and into the rafters. The next day both cats were exploring overhead, so I stopped shutting them up and moved their crate with beds, and food outside the stalls. As of yet they show no interest in the fresh-from-the-goat milk I offer them on occasion. (The first three squirts from each teat are discarded, so I try to offer the goodies to whatever dogs or cats might be handy.) And they don't appear for conversation every night, but will let me hear them moving about the barn, or see them streaking across from the tack room to the shelter of some boxes, so I know that they're okay.

The feed bin where the hen's layer mash is stored still emits scratchy noises, and if I pull off the cover I usually can catch a mouse or two enjoying a feast, but now I have hopes that some of these well fed mice will become kitty snacks (or get smart and move away). It's nice to have help with the rodent population, and I enjoy looking up into the rafters to see a cat face festooned with dusty cobwebs peering down at me. These cats have even prompted me to do a bit of fall cleaning, now that the cobwebs are no longer needed to catch flies.

Denise Down

Yesterday I went to let the goat girls out of their overnight enclosures in the late morning. Most poured out past me and vanished quickly into the woods, but one fainter doe was down. Thinking that I might actually be catching a photo of a fainted fainter I whipped out the camera, only to realize as I was snapping the shutter that her legs weren't rigidly stiff like that of one in a faint and, besides, she wasn't moving. Concerned, I entered the enclosure located beneath the refrigerator trailer we got for hay storage.

I knew to duck to keep my hair out of the thick grease where the tractor and trailer were once joined. Although I had had that spot covered with plastic at one time, the goats have long since pulled it down. Since I seem to be the only one at risk for getting greased, replacing the covering has not been a priority.

The bedding benbeath the trailer was dirty and ready to be renewed. There I found Denise stretched out flat on her side; with her vulva swollen, slick, and open; and lying very still. Since she is one of those goats who always seems to be nervous around me, that she stayed still indicated the severity of her condition. She was lying flat on her left side and her abdomen was distended. While a goat's rumen is located on their left side, when it's distended the right side mustbulge if the left side is flat to the ground.

While I was assessing the situation, two phone calls interrupted. This was good because one resulted in our neighbor Tony coming over to help. He grew up in farm country and worked on farms in his youth, so having the wisdom of his experience can be a very calming and reassuring influence indeed. (Although my conversation had been with Theresa, when she reminded me that she would be of no help if the goat was dying and I recall my saying quite emphatically that she, then, should not come over.)  A call to the veterinarian's office determined that the medical staff had just left for lunch (the office closes 12:00 - 1:30 on Fridays), but then Tony appeared to offer advice and support. Together we were able to spread a sheet of insulation over the ground and under the doe.

With a cleaner surface on which to crawl around, Tony sat with me under the trailer for the better part of an hour. Donning gloves, I performed my first pelvic exam. Although I did not expect that she was pregnant, or at least anywhere near delivery, the swollen vulva concerned me; however, I felt no being inside her womb, just the rest of her organs pressing against my fingers from outside the uterine cavity. Together we were able to get Denise to take baking soda and then water; the baking soda was to aid digestion.  She evacuated and burped; we were encouraged. We tried turning her so that her left side (where the rumen is located) would be up, but she squalled as if in pain and we let her up then allowed her to settle back upon her left side.

Eventually Tony had to leave. I went to the house to fetch a notebook in which to make notes about Denise's condition and progress, then came back to sit with her. After 1:30 I started calling Dr. Kinslow's office but didn't get through until nearly 2:00. I knew that Doc Kinslow would understand when I explained that this goat was not worth the price of a veterinary visit, and that I just wanted some advice over the phone. He is very practical and understands the economics of farming. I appreciate that quality.

He told me to turn her so that her left side was up, to situate her hindquarters uphill, and to "sit her up so that she can belch." I had been on the right track giving her baking soda and water, but he said to dissolve the soda in a bit of warm water and to add a bit of whiskey. Worried that she would not accept this concoction and that I would need to drench her with it, I tried to ask about which side of the throat to aim for--as one side is the windpipe leading into the lungs.

His response was explosive, and while I cannot claim that it's an exact quote, this certainly captures the flavor and gist of his message: "Aw hell, she's going to die anyway! Don't be stupid about it! Don't pour it in like you was tryin' to drown her. Be polite about it!" I was told to pour the liquid into her gently, holding her head at a 45 degree angle, then rub her midsection to encourage her to burp.

Have I mentioned how much I like Doc Kinslow?

By 3:00 p.m. Denise was standing up, alert, calling to her goat gal friends. When I left her she was listing a bit to one side, leaning against the chain link for support, but did not seem to be concerned with any pain.

Today I gave her the last of the whiskey mixture and kept her in again. I was heartened to hear her calling out to her gal pals on occasion. She was interested in their movements, and elicited a visit from Isabel when fresh hay was delivered. I don't think she's going to be dying today.

Welcome Marcie

Marcie came to us yesterday from C&M Valley Farm in Readyville, Tennessee. The owner, Melissa, was so kind and helpful we would have liked to be able to give her more business, but with the station wagon (and a nearly-empty wallet) Marcie was all we could manage that day. What a treat this new Saanen/Nubian cross doe is already! Although her milk production has fallen off because it's autumn and because her previous owner took a milking hiatus for some days, one milking with this statuesque gal produces more than we get in a week from our little Nigerian Dwarf gals. And she has such a sweet personality, we couldn't be happier.

Of course we love our little Nigerian Dwarfs and the Tennessee Fainters, but much of their personality comes through in aggression. Not Marcie. Yes, she was skittish that first night she moved here. The photos show her moving into a box stall that she now shares with alpacas Goldie Rose and Lili. I must have spent two hours that evening just standing in or near that stall while the girls all got used to one another. If I exited, Marcie was quickly up on her hind legs peering down the corridor to see where I had gone. I'm not used to such tall goats. Indeed, fainter Gwen can reach her nose up to the top of the door's wood, but Marcie may as well be human for her stature.

When I first brought her into that stall, having changed my mind at the last minute and decided against putting her in with Nigerian Dwarf Jennifer and alpacas Van and Spencer because Jennifer can be quite pushy with those horns of hers, why Marcie had no idea of how I was sparing her from Jennifer's aggression. Instead, what she saw was not the quiet alpaca I had chosen to pair her with but the BIG, TALL alpaca whose size cowed Marcie immediately. The first hour was spent pretty much with me at one side of the stall and Marcie and Goldie Rose standing diagonally across from one another, as far away as either could get in the restricted space. Marcie was shy but steady whereas Goldie seemed to think that if she did not look at Marcie, perhaps Marcie would not be there.

Leave it to the young to resolve all of our differences. Indeed, Miss Lili Gray Clouds made the first overtures, venturing over to sniff this new goat before skittering back to the safety of her dam's side. Eventually Goldie relaxed enough to lie down with Lili beside her. Marcie did not lie down in all the time that I was there, but she did relax enough to sample the grain and munch on the hay. Even so, she seemed so shy that I debated spending the night in the barn just to give her the familiarity of my presence. I was tired enough that I could have slept right there in the stall with these gals.

Eventually I got brave enough to walk away. While I would have liked to be able to ignore Marcie's calls, of course I walked the whole distance to the house replying to her every bleat, telling her that it would be all right, that she should try to settle in, and that she would see me again in the morning.

This morning Marcie was eager to come out into the sunshine. I kept Jennifer handy and milked each gal in turn. After milking, Marcie and I walked around for a bit and then I turned her out with the alpaca gals, Luther, and the geese. Again she objected to being left, but seemed to settle in after a while. I'm looking for another full-sized milk goat to keep with her and hope to have a companion for her within the week.

Millicent the Greedy Gal

Yesterday I was heading indoors when I looked up and noticed our delightful neighbor Theresa conversing over the fence with Miss Millie. 'Twas a pretty sight, but the camera battery was charging so Theresa was spared the intrusiveness of my sloppy photographic skills. With house slippers already on, I shuffled down the leaf-strewn driveway with care--actively avoiding any goose piles and steamy horse buns. The pair didn't need me to wander over--Millie was intent on every piece of carrot Theresa was offering, and was acting quite charming and social.

When I appeared to distract Theresa's attention, somehow Millie managed to knock a carrot piece off of the proffered palm and into the dry oak and hickory leaves underfoot. Mindless of her error, Millie requested more carrot delivered at her height--and Theresa readily obliged. I mused aloud that now I understood why the horses often graze along the fence strip, even though to do so means crossing the slippery driverway. But Theresa stated that this was the first time she had brought food to the fenceline. What do you know, I thought, those clever horses managed to lure an unsuspecting human out of her home laden with treats for them, just by being cute and available.

Once the carrott pieces were gone, Millie nudged Theresa for more only to receive a the admonition that the treats were gone except for "that piece, right there" on the ground. With her index finger Theresa gestured to make her point, but Millie doesn't listen so well and seized the opportunity--and the finger--to close her teeth over the hand that had just fed her. When Theresa squawked in alarm, I looked up to see her forefinger securely clamped between Millie's soft lips, but my neighbor was feeling the acute pressure of strong teeth over the first joint of that digit. I moved to swat at Millie and only made things worse because she started to move away without releasing her fleshy prize.

Soon Millie had moved off down the drive and poor Theresa was clutching her finger with her opposing hand, hesitant to look at the damage. "Oh, she couldn't have broken the skin," said I, only to be told that no, "She most certainly did." Uh oh, the situation was worse than I had first assessed. Allowed to look at the wound, I saw that indeed Theresa was right. Miss Millie, the hog, had ripped a chunk of skin along the side of that knuckle. Theresa was dispatched to her house to clean the wound, and I turned to Millie to tell the horse that she had blown a fine opportunity through her greediness. Theresa called back over her shoulder that no, she would be back and claimed that she had been at fault for Millie's rude behavior.

Such a trooper, that Theresa is resielient when it comes to facing farm-related injuries. Not ten minutes later I received a text saying that Theresa had brought more carrots to the fence and settled her disagreement with Millie. "It's cool," she wrote and meant it.

I'm not sure if I would have been so forgiving.

The Dating Game

When Mitzi showed signs of being ready to breed, I sent her on a date with Brad Pitt, the handsome young tan-and-white pinto fainter. They spent a couple of days and nights in the alpaca girls' side of the home pasture, with Brad being excused on occasion for inviting himself to the alpaca dinner trough. For a little guy, Brad can reach up to, over, and into wall-mounted feed bins with ease. At one time when Brad was excused, Hugh Jackman entered the dating sphere. Unfortunately, neither of these young bucks showed much of an interest in sweet Mitzi. The photo depicts the one moment when Brad was caught expressing an interest in the shaggy gal; however, he'll need to get much closer if he has any desire to be fruitful and multiply. Indeed, after the first night the two were left together, Brad showed so little interest that I trotted Mitzi over to the fence near BullyBob just to see if my original diagnosis of her being ready for breeding was correct. BullyBob said it was so--vociferously, with much grunting and snorting.

A conversation yesterday with another goat breeder who raises both Nigerian Dwarfs and Fainters helped me to understand better. Apparently the Nigerian Dwarfs have a healthy libido and are eager to fulfill any requests for breedings, whereas the Fainters by nature are less driven. I guess that is why people assume a doe has been bred just because she has been "running with" a buck for a number of weeks. I'm tempted to put BullyBob in with Mitzi just to arouse the Fainter fellows, but expect that the result would be a kid or kids by BullyBob--handsome, but less likely to faint. Since Mitzi is already a Nigerian x Fainter cross herself who rarely stiffens (as fainters do just before falling over in a "faint"), I have no wish to mix Bully's genes into her lineage.

Hmm, maybe if I fenced a small area within a larger area, then placed the fainters I hoped to breed within the smaller enclosure and had BullyBob roaming just outside that fence...maybe that would help to focus the Fainter bucks on task. Since the puppies are now climbing over the fence-within-the-pasture I created for them a few weeks ago, perhaps I'll try using that for goats today. Wish me luck!