Cock o' the Walk

The rooster in question pauses to survey the land before proceeding into the pasture.

One of the younger roosters, he is about two years old now, keeps tabs on the hens that roost near the barn. Kimberly hen, the surviving Buff Orpington hen from a lot we picked up nearly three years ago now; one or two of the Jersey Black hens; and the scruffy, scrappy mixed-breed hen that raised the only brood that made it last year comprise this fellow's flock.

At dusk, the lot of them settle in and around the hay trough in the home pasture, and on the tree branches beside it. I am happier when they roost in the tree branches because I fail to appreciate hen poop in the hay; however, they tend to settle as they wish, without thinking to consult me about my preferences.

I enjoy watching the roosters tend to their little bands of hens. Together the rooster and his hens will roam the farm from the edge of the highway back to behind the barn in the course of a day. Pecking and scratching, they turn the earth tirelessly seeking the choicest tidbits the earth has to offer. Each unit is industrious independently of the other flocks.

Alpacas Play Chase

Spencer pursues Pamela's triplets.

Watching the alpacas at play can be extremely amusing. I love how they skip and hop much like the cartoon character PePe le Pew. Our largest alpaca, Hamilton, and our smallest, Spencer, are the alpacas we see playing "Chase" most often. Luckily for them, we have ample targets at the moment; young kids are the most unsuspecting and fun.

Hamilton and Emmilye regard one another across a fence.

 The home pasture fencing is set up to allow the alpacas and female goats access to hay and pasture, and to separate stalls in the barn. At the moment, kids can flow between the pastures through a gap beneath the hay rack. Sometimes the Nubian does, Pamela and/or Leslie, squeeze through as well; although, of late only Pamela has been venturing to join the alpacas. For some reason she can get into the alpacas' pasture with ease, but relies on an opened gate to return to the goat side of the enclosure.

Adult goats will not play "Chase" with the alpacas. As such, the alpacas pay them little mind. Sure, they will share a space at a feed tub, but beyond that the adult goats are not nearly as engaging as the youngsters. Anything that will run when rushed becomes a fair playmate for a frisky alpaca. The kids will soon be chasing enough on their own, I do not feel bad for them when the alpacas use them as playmates.

Starlight Becomes a Goat

Starlight watches her new herd descend upon fresh grain.

Today Starlight decided it was time to become a goat. Ever since she moved here, she has been spending nights in the kennel--first sharing space with Biscuit, and later hanging out with the Leghorn chickens. During daylight hours she has meandered over the front acres, grazing here, nibbling there, and occasionally visiting through the fence with the alpacas and the other goats.

This morning when I brought grain up to the dairy does in the home pasture, Starlight trailed along and asked to join the herd. She has put on some weight since arriving and no longer appears as frail as she was at first, so I agreeably opened the gate for her. The other does are bigger than she is, but I am hoping that Pamela and Marcie will be too busy with their kids to spend much effort beating up on the newcomer. Leslie is another story; she made her feelings known today: she's hazing the new gal rather than welcoming her into the herd.

Little Emmilye asks, "Hey Lady, what's the hold up? Aren't you supposed to pour this grain out into our feed tubs so that we can all get to it?"

Starlight, though, should be able to hold her own. Plus, her udder has begun to fill and her sides have begun to bulge. She is likely due to kid in March, and I want her well away from the chicken coop when she has her kids. Hopefully, she will have settled in with and become accepted as a member of the herd before her young arrive.

Chilly Temperatures

A misty winter morning as viewed from our farm.

February's wintery weather--mostly in the form of cold temperatures--is manageable, even preferable, for the thick-coated animals. The Great Pyrenees dogs and the alpacas stand or play in the brisk air, or stretch out on the cold ground, all of the discomfort of hot summers long forgotten.

Kids beneath heat lamp; hen brooding overhead.

On chilly days the kids often congregate in their stall, gathering beneath the heat lamps for warmth. The larger Nubian kids, Metro and Erin, romp outside periodically. They are hale and hearty, and growing nicely. Soon, Marcie's new kids will be joining them outdoors.

Emmilye is hesitant to romp outside in the cold.

Since our Nubian dam's littlest, Emmilye, is lame she is often left behind when her littermates romp off to play. Sometimes she appears lonely; however, usually she is settled alone, like a content cat in sunlight, just watching the world from her warm nest.

Marcie's kids: Isabell in front, Kimberly in back.

The twin doelings, now almost two days old, stay in where it's warm, but lie separately from the triplets. Each little goat family is insular at this point; although stabled together, the young kids congregate separately when bedding down.

On days like this I find excuses to spend even more time around the goats. The kids are so dear.

Marcie Delivers Twin Doelings

Marcie tends to her newly-delivered kid.

Yesterday evening I got home later than planned, and hustled up to the barn to check on Marcie. She was in distress, with a kid lodged in her birth canal. Unable to deliver her offspring, Marcie was straining without success. I entered to see a head that had cleared the birth canal, but no feet. The kid still was wrapped in its sac but appeared to be breathing, so I cleared some of the gook away from her nose and mouth before trying to help the doe. Although I could not push the kid back into the dam, I was able to reach in and locate the front legs that were folded back at the knees. One at a time, I caught a foreleg on my fingers and managed to straighten each so that the hooves projected out below the kid's chin. After a gentle tug by me while Marcie pushed, the kid slipped out easily. It was female!

Wishing that I had had time to clean the stall before Marcie delivered, I put out fresh shavings where the kid lay and stepped back to allow Marcie to tend to her young. Then I remembered that I was not supposed to even allow Marcie to lick her kid dry, and I began a frantic search for clean towels. A quick trip to the house found me returning with towels, recently-purchased syringes of colostrum, and a bottle of formula. The bottle of Pamela's colostrum was left out on the counter to thaw.

The wet kid nuzzles the barn wall in search of sustenance.

The kid was up and walking when I returned, but her coat was still wet after I toweled it a bit and the late-day temperature was approaching freezing. After giving her a dose of colostrum suspended in gel, I presented her with the bottle. That was not a smart move. Although she suckled briefly, the nipple came back bearing some of the colostrum I had just administered. I spun the dial on the syringe and tried to replace as much as I had just removed from the kid's mouth. After snipping the umbilical cord and dipping it in peroxide--the iodine was hiding--I tucked the doeling under my shirt and headed for the house where I would try to get her warm. The kid demonstrated considerable lung power when removed from the stall; we were thankful for her good health.

In the house, I hastily settled this first kid into a plastic bin lined with towels, tucked an old sweatshirt around her as a blanket, and left her in the warmth. Our operations manager was talking to her, albeit a bit stiffly, as I left. While making my way back up the hill in the dark and chilly evening, I reviewed my upcoming schedule, and weighed the options of bottle feeding to protect the kid from CAE versus allowing Marcie to manage the job. Clearly the doe would be happier allowed to keep her young. Our household would be happier if I were not agitating to keep new kids indoors. And with Winter School looming, it made more sense to abandon thoughts of bottle raising any kids. We would discuss it together, but I was pretty sure of the outcome: Marcie would be allowed to keep her kid (or kids) and she would do a much better job than me.

Marcie with her second kid of the night.

In the barn, I found that Marcie had delivered and dried off a second doeling while I was gone. This gal was a little darker in color and sported a star on her forehead. Even though I would likely be leaving the kid with her dam, since I had milked Marcie the prior evening, I administered a dose of the colostrum gel to this kid. She took it without complaint.

The temperature continued to drop, and I left in search of another lamp and bulb. Of course, the only lamp I found had the remains of a broken bulb in its socket. Back at the house, I wrestled the broken base from the socket while discussing our kid care options. No surprise, leaving the kids with their dam was our choice. The new kids were named then. Kimberly, for the light-fawn colored firstborn, and Isabell for the honey-colored twin. Once I had a new bulb installed and tested, I bundled Kimberly back under my coat and trundled her--and the lamp--back up to the barn.

Kimberly nurses.

While waiting for Marcie to pass all of the afterbirth, I strewed fresh straw about the stall, obtained an extension with multiple outlets and a GFCI switch, rearranged the heat lamps, and encouraged the new kids to nurse. The afterbirth hung on even after the doelings had eaten and settled to sleep beneath the heat lamp. When Marcie had finally passed the last of it, and I had ascertained that it was, indeed, complete it was time for the goats to rest for the night. I rewarded the adult does with a taste of Goat Nutri-Drench before leaving, then hung the bottles high--out of goat reach.

The evening had been a success. Both doelings were tall and strong, like their dam, and the births had gone well. After losing Marcie's first kids two years ago, I was feeling grateful as I trudged back down the frosty drive to the house.

Thank you, Lord, for our healthy herd.