Denise's Buckling

The Tennessee Fainting Goat named Denise presented us with a fine little buckling today. He's black and white and has (Would anyone care to guess?) blue eyes. BullyBob (the purveyor of those plentiful blue eyes) certainly earned his keep this past winter. What's unusual is that I have yet to hear this kid bleat or cry out.

This little guy is named Costa, for a gentleman in New England with whom we spoke recently. Him being our sixteenth kid of the season, names are being grabbed up from any available source. Friends beware: call us now and your name may appear in the herd if a kid's birth corresponds with the timing of your call!

Welcome, Costa!

Uncle Phil Arrives

Yesterday, the Tennessee Fainting Goat named for Sarah Bernhardt (who was given to swooning in the moving pictures she made) gave us a sweet singleton buckling who we promptly named Uncle Phil. We're pleased to see that this kid has brown eyes, indicating that his sire was a fainter, too.This little guy is gentle and quiet (well, until I try to carry him away from his mother, at which point he demonstrates phenomenal lung power), like the man for whom he is named. We're a tad concerned about this little kid's Eeyore posture because when we've seen it before (in little April, and later in little Raymond toward the end of his life) the goats with that posture were unwell. However, Uncle Phil seems fit and healthy and we expect no problems with his health.


His dam is small in stature, and her kid from last year is exceptionally small, so I guess her offspring fall into the category of miniature fainters. They're very cute and much easier to wrangle as adults should they take it into their heads to resist my suggestions.

Uncle Phil's coat is lush; it practically gleams. Miss Sarah did us right this spring, I'll say. Her kid is a fine addition to our herd, buckling or not.

I do see a buckling sale in the offing. We had too many of the guys here on the farm last fall (which is rutting season--when male goats douse themselves in a special cologne made of their own urine). Unfortunately many of the bucklings here are named for friends or family, but everyone must grow up and move on sometime.

Feenster's First

This morning the Tennessee Fainting Goat named Feenster presented us with a fine little doeling. All white (maybe cream), she has blue eyes--so we know who her daddy is: BullyBob. I swear, if Bully's chest gets any more puffed out with paternal pride, that stinky goat will pop! (Seriously though, Bully's genes are grossly overrepresented in this year's batch of kids. As much as I love the guy--and he is lovable when he's not ramming his horns into my shins as I bring hay into his pasture--enough is enough.)

The next name we had waiting was Grandma D--suggested by a friend in New England--and so it was bestowed upon Feenster's offspring. Since this kid is pure white, it also seemed fitting that she carry the "grandma" name. (Get it? White hair = grandma? Simple distinctions such as these make me happy.) Plus, the other kid born this morning is named Uncle Phil, and the grandma name fits with the uncle designation.

Miss Feeney is a fine little mother, as one would expect, who readily discerns the cry of her kid from among all of the kids cries in her maternity stall. [In the top photo, Mitzi's Jack and Josie are "hiding" behind the cattle panel. At just a week old, they're already the big kids in town.] As can be seen in the photo where Feenster is bringing her nose to meet Grandma D's, the maternity stall is getting a bit crowded with all the fainter moms-in-waiting. Now that the three large dairy goats are all feeding the two Nubian kids and the orphan Graham, I find the individual attentions of the fainter and dwarf mothers for their kids to be touching.

With the kid count mounting, kidding season is drawing to a close here on P&CW Farm. Only a few does have yet to kid and all are likely due within a couple of weeks.

Hatchlings

Yesterday, when I went to check on the fourteen eggs turning slowly in the incubator in my office for any signs of holes or cracks, I immediately noticed a beak-sized chip near the crown of one egg visible through the observation window. This being my first experience at hatching eggs (since I thoroughly bungled those I incubated last year and decided to leave the job to a broody hen), I felt a small rush of excitement. I peered inside to see if any other eggs were cracking. The directions said to move eggs off of the mechanical turner two to three days before they are due to hatch lest any hatchlings get caught in the turning trays, but I had not bothered to note the date I started the eggs. Since they had not all been laid on the same date, I was unsure if they would hatch out (if they hatched) as per the spacing by which they were laid, or if the gestational clock began with being incubated.

Lifting off the Styrofoam lid, I noticed one wet, bedraggled black-feathered chick wobbling among the turning trays already. Quickly I lifted out the turning tray, placed the thirteen remaining un-hatched eggs flat on the wire-screened floor of the incubator, and placed the chick among them. For approximately the next hour I bustled around gathering materials to create a brooder--a warm, sheltered environment that will house the chicks during this early phase of their lives. Although I began by lining a large cardboard moving box with shredded paper, the thought of running a heat lamp inside cardboard 24/7 did not appeal to my sense of safety. Soon, though, I had a large dog crate placed on the front porch near an electrical outlet. I lined the crate with hay (we were out of straw), placed fresh water and a dish of poultry grower feed (I still needed to purchase chick starter) within, covered the openings that could permit a draft, and rigged a heat lamp and plugged it in. Almost immediately I could feel the enclosed area heating up. I gave it several minutes to approach the 100-degree temperature of the incubator, then hiked upstairs to fetch the new chick.

It was still wet and bedraggled-looking, with plenty of pink skin showing between the wet, matted feathers. In contrast, the two sections of its former shell were bone dry. The chick settled quickly into its new environment and I went about the business of my day. I was amused that the eggs remaining in the incubator chirped and cheeped from time-to-time. Later when I was inside working on the computer, and after the cheeping had gotten quite steady and loud, I heard something tumbling around on the incubator's wore floor. Upon investigation, I found another scraggly-looking black-feathered chick panting hard, just having completed its first somersault without benefit of any eggshell casing.

This chick joined the first in the now-toasty brooder. Indeed, the first chick was resting a good distance from the lamp and the heat blasted out when I opened the brooder's door, so I fetched the long-stemmed cheese thermometer to measure the brooder's temperature. While the instrument measured, I reviewed the directions to the Thermal Air Hova-Bator to check the recommended temperature range. Instructed to provide a 100-degree area for the first week, with a cooler exercise area, then to drop the temperature by five degrees per week until the ambient temperature within the brooder is 70-degrees, I returned to the proch to read the thermometer. It read 100 degrees F. And, since the chicks had placed themselves beneath the lamp's red light, I stopped worrying about the temperature being too high for them.

After a stop at Edwards Feeds, I came home with fifty pounds of broiler starter. Any chicks that prove to be cockerels be warned, your feed regimen has you headed for the oven. And the feed looks and feels so good, its rich yellow color begs eating. Indeed, in the late afternoon I found a chick standing in the feed cup I'd provided, chowing down on this tasty new feed. Also worthy of note, the five redworms I'd gathered from beneath an outdoor planter pot had vanished by evening. I'd say these chicks are off to a good start.

In the evening, while sitting downstairs, I heard very loud cheeping from upstairs again. Upon investigation, I found another newly-hatched black-feathered chick and ferried it out to the brooder. Last year when our broody hen--a black-feathered Black New Jersey x Rhode Island ed cross--had favored the yellow chicks and murdered the black chicks, I had assumed that the black chicks were guinea keets, not chicks. Now, I'm not so sure. I must compare last year's photos to this year's chicks.

So far today I've ferried out three more chicks, all yellow. More continue to hatch. While a 100-percent hatch rate is not to be expected, I am quite pleased with our success thus far. Ha, "our success" would imply that I had something to do with these little miracles of life. Indeed, it amazes me the strength required to peck one's way out of a shell and wobble forward into life on Earth.

~      ~      ~

Although I have yet to read this title, Patricia Foreman has impressed me as an author whose work is easily accessible for the neophyte farmer. Urban-dwelling readers who thought poultry only live in the country may be pleasantly surprised to discover the phenomenon of urban chickens. From backyards to rooftops, I understand that city dwellers are finding ways to enjoy the benefits of keeping poultry--fresh eggs being only one of many!

Mitzy's Twins

This morning when I went out to the barn, I discovered Mitzy with two new kids. While I had known that her time was approaching, I had not yet moved her into the maternity pasture which meant a quick shuffle was in order. Sarah was grateful to be released from confinement to the maternity stall, where she had been waiting since before BullyJoe was born because she had showed signs of labor some days ago. Mitzy allowed me to usher her and her new kids two stalls over and into the maternity suite, where she discovered that new motherhood grants goats here royal treatment. Now with her own water, grain, and hay she can browse to her heart's content without needing to compete with other hungry goats for feed.

And while she's confined to an enclosure with no other goats in it, this enclosure includes the broody hen Kimberly and the troubled young rooster Prince Eric. Poor Eric has been the victim of several attacks by PrettyBoy to the point where he is definitely looking the worse for wear. During the daytime when most of the goats are loosed to browse the woods and the alpaca mommas and their crias tend to stay out in the pasture, Mitzy will still have a chicken or two for company.

The new kids have been named. The doeling is Josie--a name provided by a friend in New England. The buckling is Jack since we've been going with names that start with the same letter or the same sound for the multiple births. Josie and Jack, welcome!

Shearing the Boys

This morning the alpaca males crowded into our little two-horse trailer for their 2010 adventure in shearing. The ride was uneventful, although they were certainly glad to be loosed into the lush pasture at Long Hollow Suri Alpacas. Even better than the abundant green grass, they quickly discovered the resident female alpacas. Or, should I say that the gals discovered them? At various points throughout the morning, the boys could be found taking a break from their grazing to actively ogle the girls.

In the shearing barn the work again progressed quickly and efficiently. Most of the boys behaved, but MacGregor came in spitting and swearing and had to wear a spit cloth over his face for the duration of his shearing. Of course, he seemed to understand the purpose of the cloth and stopped spitting immediately. (After spitting, the alpacas may stand around with their mouths open for several minutes, airing out the foul stench.)

At day's end, the boys enjoyed the same cool comfort for which they had envied the girls only yesterday.

Shearing Day

This weekend, April 10 and 11, Jan and Carl Heinrich of Long Hollow Suri Alpacas are hosting a shearing opportunity at their Gallatin, Tennessee, farm with Bill Watkins of Frostglen--a highly-skilled shearer and shearing teacher with over 20 years experience. This morning we got the two-horse trailer hooked up, then I was left to halter and load the alpaca gals myself. This was no mean trick because they loathe being caught and they're pastured in the maternity area of the home pasture along with all of our 2010 goat mommas and their kids. Although I brought out a scoop of grain with which to tempt the alpacas, I "caught" many more goats that I wanted. When it comes to food, goats are anything but shy. Eventually I got smart enough to let the goats out to roam the woods, after which haltering the alpacas was less troublesome.

We trundled down to the trailer in the front yard. With four leads in hand, I had four alpacas meandering along behind me. Miss Goldie Rose was the leader. Not only did she allow me to slip a halter on her early on, she also climbed right into the trailer without a fuss and then wanted to come out again. Having never loaded alpacas for transport before, I was unsure of whether to tie them as one would a horse, or leave their heads free; I tied them to be on the safe side. Quickly realizing that I would not successfully load the rest without a helping hand (with the trailer parked on an incline, one of the doors needed to be held open), and so I pulled out my phone to pester our amazingly-good-natured neighbor Theresa. I am hopeless at planning for a schedule and so call for assistance at a moment's notice, and if she's home Theresa comes to my aid every time (or sends Tony in her stead). With Theresa's help, the animals were loaded and ready to go quickly.

Shearing at Long Hollow Suri Alpacas was a not-to-be-missed experience. With a team of experienced handlers working, each animal was processed quickly and efficiently with very little emotional stress. While waiting their turn, the alpacas grazed quietly together in the pen provided. Busily feasting on the lush grass and thick clover, they had little opportunity to miss the mud-lot from which they had come or to fret about their impending fate in the nearby barn.

Having had Bill Watkins shear my alpacas, I fear I may have been spoiled for other shearers I may meet in the future. When removing the main blanket of fleece, he used long, smooth strokes that caused the blanket to roll off each animal like waves in a velvet ocean. Although I tried to capture the magic with a camera, I am quite sure that the magical aspect of the experience will not translate into two dimensions. The finished blanket was bundled into a clear plastic bag and marked; this was the first-quality fiber, called the firsts. Trimmings from the rest of the animal were sorted and placed into sacks labeled for seconds and thirds. This last category has enough of the stiff guard hairs as to make it unusable for clothing or yarn, but it can be used to stuff pillows or mattresses, and perhaps I'll find time to try my hand at needle felting using the thirds. Before leaving the barn, each alpaca had her toenails trimmed, her teeth inspected (Van's were trimmed), and her topknot styled. Since Goldie had been looking rough for some time now, with her topknot a tangled mass of dirty fiber, her transformation was the most striking. Each girl, though, has a very cute look about her now that her body and face are again visible to the world. 

When we left for home, the bed of the truck carried a small mountain of bags filled with fiber--and the alpaca girls were vastly lighter than they'd been when they arrived. I was gratified to see, as the fleeces rolled off of them, that their body condition is good and the girls are neither too thin nor too heavy. They, I'm sure, were gratified to be free of that warm bulk because the days have begun to reach into the 80's with regularity, and alpacas are mountain animals, well-suited to much cooler temperatures.

At day's end, the still-fleecey 'paca males could be seen watching the newly-shorn gals. Tomorrow we'll repeat the process, this time carting the male alpacas off to Gallatin.

Who's Your Daddy?

Yesterday afternoon Cocoa's 2009 doeling (sired by BullyBob), Evelyn, presented us with a fine black-and-white, blue-eyed buckling. He's a bit skittish around me, as is Evelyn--a behavior she learned from her own mother, as Cocoa has never been a cuddly goat. A fine-looking little buckling, this guy is a good example of line breeding. "Line breeding" is a polite way to express incestuous breeding and is used when the outcome is good. When the outcome is undesirable, the same breeding would be called "cross breeding." By either name, the result is the same, which is to say that when asked "Who's your daddy, Little Guy?" the answer will be: "Why, my daddy is my granddaddy, of course!"

With BullyBob as both his sire and his maternal grandsire, the new buckling has been named BullyJoe.

*    *    *

For readers interested in keeping one or more goats, printed resources abound. I like Sue Weaver's guide books. Written for the person without any prior caprine experience, they provide a wonderful introduction for aspiring hobby farmers.

Hello, Spring!

Spring has sprung with abandon and vigor. Mother Nature has painted the rolling hills of Middle Tennessee with far more shades of green than I can name and the landscape changes daily. This photo taken this afternoon from beside the hay storage trailer captures the view in one snippet of time.

While the landscape is springing to life all around us, the farming chores are growing, too. The horses are shedding their winter coats by the handful. The hens are becoming broody--indeed we have one clutch of eggs being incubated within the goats' maternity stall. JoJo, our gander, is becoming increasingly territorial; indeed, the geese are often herded into "goose jail" just to give the other animals a break from his insistent heckling. By clearing out old bedding from goat stalls I have a seemingly-endless supply of organic matter for garden beds. All this without even beginning to think of planting! Nature's abundance is all around us.

Full of Fleece

We've had several warm days of late and the alpacas are beginning to rush me whenever I appear with the hose to fill water tubs; however, in the interest of not messing up their fiber (which is well ornamented with plant matter already), I'm making them wait until after shearing--this weekend. In the meantime, I've tried to capture photos of the gals in full fleece. They're puffy, rounded, and very full.

Lili and Judith, our crias, have almost rounded faces in contrast to the adults whose fluff does not encroach over their cheeks.

The alpacas are so pillowy soft at this time of year that I caught the little Nubian buckling Samuel trying to use Shaun as a pillow one afternoon when Samuel was very tired after a busy day.

Goodbye Gretchen, Hello Graham

On Saturday morning, April 3rd, our little brown-eyed Nigerian Dwarf doe appeared to be in labor. Out in the pasture she had separated herself from the rest of the herd, and while she is usually quite skittish around me, on this morning she allowed me to rub her neck and shoulders, indeed she even leaned her face against my leg. Also, by standing apart, periodically straining, and doing some stargazing, Gretchen communicated her imminent delivery to me. Over the course of the morning I constructed a separate stall for her within the maternity stall in the barn, and then stocked it with clean bedding, fresh water, hay, grain with alfalfa shreds, and loose minerals and baking soda.

At 2:30 p.m. I trudged down to the bottom of the home pasture and tried to lead Gretchen up to the barn. She resisted. I picked her up, dodging her horns, and carried her uphill. When I set her down in the barn so that I could open her stall, she stiffened and threw her head back--a posture communicating distress. After settling her into her new digs, I was concerned that she started out with her head flung so far back that her little horns touched her shoulders, but she soon shifted into a normal posture.

At 3:30 p.m. when I checked on her, she showed the thick, white discharge of mucous that generally precedes birth. She was still amenable to attention from me and again leaned into me when given the opportunity. Most of the does who generally avoid contact with me will allow me near shortly before and for some hours after delivery; Gretchen's behavior fit the profile.

At 4:30 p.m. a little hoof and a nose appeared--not the desired combination--so I slipped on fresh gloves, repositioned the kid, then helped her deliver a fine little buckling. She lay down immediately after birthing him and continued straining, presumably to pass the placenta. I cleaned him off for her: clearing his nose and mouth of mucous, drying him off, and snipping and dipping his umbilical cord. Although her udder had filled in preparation for birth, neither of her teats had become engorged and I was unable to milk her for the shaggy new kid. A call down to the house got colostrum cubes retrieved from the freezer. (Thank you, Marcie, for the abundance of colostrum you provided upon losing your twin kids this winter.) A digital exam revealed no second kid due to arrive, so this singleton buckling became the focus of my attentions.

The little guy--an adorably cute fellow with a buckskin coat, dark brown dorsal stripe and socks, a white spot on his head and some on one side, and mottled white ears--accepted the name Graham as I carried him down to the house. Earlier in the season a new up-and-coming country music star-to-be had visited the farm (wearing that second hat that all new artists need to produce income). He had been struck by little Tony's coloring, and this new kid's is similar so he was named for Graham.

In the house I melted colostrum cubes in a baggie dipped in hot water and heated the milk to 102 degrees, filled a soda bottle, attached a Pritchard teat and settled into a chair with the little guy on my lap. He nursed like a seasoned trooper. Nostrils flared, he latched onto the nipple and suckled with determination until most of the warm liquid had vanished. I was well pleased with his survival instincts and carried him back to the barn to see if his mother had passed the placenta intact.

We found Gretchen still down on her side, and now she was periodically thrashing her legs. Still retaining the placenta, despite my best efforts to ease it on out of her, she was not doing well. Although it was Saturday, I pulled out my phone and called the Kinslow Clinic that had closed midday. I was hoping for the outgoing message to provide instructions for emergencies, but the phone rang 25 times (yes, I counted) without being picked up. Assuming that someone had forgotten to set the machine for night calls before leaving for the day, I figured I would just muddle along with little Gretchen. After all, I was merely seeking advice over the phone--this goat did not warrant a pricey house call.

As the day wore on, though, Gretchen continued to thrash while retaining the placenta. My tugging on the discharge only revealed white sinews within as the afterbirth tore apart in my gloved hands. When dark arrived I hiked back to the house to explore emergency veterinary clinics online. After a couple of dead-end calls I pulled up the Kinslow Clinic's YellowPages advertisement and saw that they provided 24/7 on-call support, and so I tried that number again.

I was grateful when Dr. Whitlow returned my call promptly. I had seen him in action a couple of weeks back when I had chauffeured a neighbor's doe to the clinic for assistance and I had been favorably impressed. He proved to be just as helpful on the phone as in person; however, the verdict was that Gretchen needed to be put down. Although I had suspected that, I wanted to hear it from a veterinarian before putting the poor gal out of her misery. His call sealed her fate.

After settling Graham in a Rubbermaid tote in the house, gathering trash bags and a loaded gun, and bringing Gretchen downhill away from the pasture, I eased her passage with one quick shot behind the ear. In the darkness I could not see the damage done, but as she immediately relaxed and became quiet I gathered the shot had been effective. Her limbs continued to twitch a bit, more slowly, but she stopped breathing and I could detect no heartbeat, so I bundled her into garbage bags to contain the blood and placed the bundle in a trash can with a tight-fitting lid. The can rolled into the kennel with no trouble, and I locked it within the chain link enclosure to deter predators overnight.

With carrion we must be concerned about inviting predators onto the property. In addition I take great care to keep the dogs from tasting goat blood lest they develop a yen for it and compromise their value as guardians. The trash can in the kennel addressed these concerns.

Overnight we bottle fed the buckling. He was less eager to take the nipple than he had been at first, but once it was in his mouth he latched on well and nursed. In the morning he would come with us to Nashville for we had promised to bring a small petting zoo to church for Easter Sunday. Even though his dam was gone, little Graham was strong, vigorous, and vital.

This morning Graham proved to be the hit of the petting zoo. Children, teens, and adults all wanted to hold the soft bundle. Graham cooperated well and charmed all who met him. Dozens of photos were snapped of folks decked out in Easter finery doting on the little kid who was not yet a full day old. Graham is off to a good start!

We Love Vistaprint! -- A shameless advertisement...

Okay, so this is not a farm blog entry per se; however, our experience with Vistaprint came as an outgrowth of our establishing P&CW Organic Farm. When we began the move to Tennessee, we wanted our friends and family to be able to stay in touch with us and so began our alliance with Vistaprint. An order of free business cards provided all of our contact information and helped us begin thinking of the farm as an actual business.

Long before our logo was developed, Vistaprint's vast stock of ready-made designs helped us to establish an image for our farm. Their easy-to-use templates allowed us to become successful amateur graphic designers. Working on their site was fun because it provided so many ideas and possibilities, along with rock-bottom prices. Plus, most items we ordered could be tried out first through either a free or heavily-discounted offering.

Of late we've progressed beyond business cards and T-shirts and have begun designing gift items for visitors to the farm. Below you can find images of some of the great note cards, key chains, mouse pads, and more that we have happily purchased as tokens for our friends.

As newly-established affiliate partners, we are happy to share our good experiences with Vistaprint with our readers. Here at P&CW Organic Farm Inc., we love Vistaprint!