Leap of Faith

In keeping with our move from the west to the east, the Rainy Day Ranch is now Leaping Goat Farm.

It's been a great three years blogging at the Rainy Day Ranch, but it's time for a new adventure. After years of planning, I'm ready to add a commercial component to the farm. The Wrangler--a marketing guru by profession--is insistent that my brand must "communicate the essential quality" of my products, convey a distinct message, and appeal to my target audience. The crux of the matter is that we couldn't overcome the sense that a ranch belongs in the west. The Wrangler also had a problem with the rainy day aspect. Although I love nothing more than a cozy rainy day, I accepted his reasoning that a Rainy Day Farm evokes images of wet animals and soggy fields.

I feel sad parting with the Rainy Day Ranch, but I think the name Leaping Goat Farm conveys the pure happiness and optimism that I'm feeling as I finally transition from a "virtual" ranch to a real, albeit small, working farm.

Please join me over at www.leapinggoatfarm.blogspot.com. I'm bringing everything with me--three years of blog posts and my failures, successes, ideas, and dreams. See you there!

Big News

With all the logistics more or less in place, I finally can announce that we are moving to New England at the end of the month! After five years of moaning about missing rainy days, waxing poetic about fall colors, and envying our east coast friends sleeping in on snow days, I suppose I can shut up. A 10-acre farm with a cozy country house and a proper 4-stall barn amid apple orchards, country stores, and equestrian farms awaits us and the animals.

California has been an excellent host these past five years. Even though cramped and crowded Laguna Beach wasn't my cup of tea, it's stupid to complain about living just blocks from the Pacific ocean. We had a marvelous year here on the avocado farm, which gave us a solid introduction to country living. Best of all, we've met lots of dynamic and interesting friends--people with big ideas and loads of talent. And, yes, I'll admit that it's possible I will miss the weather out here when I'm shoveling a path to the barn next January in sub-zero weather. (I like winter, but I'm not a complete weirdo. Temps below zero are not ideal.)

Nonetheless, we're not getting any younger, and there's still so much more to see and do.

"What's next?" I asked the Wrangler, as we started sorting through our closets.

The Wrangler paused to consider. "Well, our priority is getting those paddocks ready for the goats and sheep, because the current horse fencing won't keep them in. I still have to call the cable company. I'm not sure how the oil heating system works..."

"No, I mean what are we going to do after we've done the New England farm thing?' I asked, dreamily. "Maybe a ranch in Montana? A cabin in Alaska? I've always wanted to live in Seattle. What about a sheep farm in the Irish countryside? I would love all the green hills." I stopped when I saw the Wrangler's face. "Never mind! I suppose we should get through this move first, huh?"

We've finished this west coast chapter--but the book isn't closed. Who knows what the future holds?

Rattled Nerves Redux

No, it wasn't another snake, thanks goodness. This time it was a baby rat.

I was on my out the door yesterday morning. The dogs were out in the courtyard, and I called them inside. Good little Fenway came running. Dash, who was sitting in the middle of the cobblestone walkway, gave me the ole stink eye and refused to budge.

"Dash, get in here," I called, impatiently rattling the box of dog treats. He didn't move an inch. "Come on, I'm running late and don't have time for this," I tried to reason with my dog.

That's when I saw it. Under Dash's scruffy little paw was a rather sizable baby rat, about six inches long not including its tail.

You know what? The dead baby rat didn't phase me. The six-foot snake incident was a life-changer, I guess. If it's not a six-foot snake, then it's not a problem.

I moved in to get a closer look, but Dash growled. He was protecting his kill.

"Shut up, Dash," I muttered. I thought dogs were supposed to proudly present their masters with gifts of dead mice and the like.

I switched tactics. "Let's go a for a walk!" I said excitedly, trying to divert Dash's attention from the rat. Dash refused to look at me.

I wasn't too upset at this point. Yes, it would be nice if my dog didn't kill rodents. But killing rodents is what terriers do; it's in their blood. And, yes, it would be even better if we didn't have rodents scampering around. But this is the country, and stuff like this comes with the territory. Frankly, I saw plenty of mice and rats when I lived in the mean streets of Chicago, DC and Laguna Beach. For some reason, a country rat is better than an alley rat.

I was jolted out of my zen-like, c'est-la-vie state the second I saw the rat's legs move. Crap. It was still alive. I envisioned Dash beelining it for the house, squiggling rat baby in tow. I could see him hiding under the bed with his toothy hostage. I pictured dozens of rat babies and a giant mama rat emerging from the corners of the courtyard, swords drawn, prepared for a rescue mission.

What's a confident, capable cowgirl to do?

"Honey, can you come home?" I whispered into the phone. Yes, I did make the poor Wrangler come home from the office to handle the rat baby situation, and the good man did not so much as sigh. I love that guy!

Rattled Nerves

Reader alert: this post is not for the squeamish. It does, however, recap the seedier side of country living. Turns out that farm life is not all baby goats and sunsets.

Not long after I laughed at my overanxious mother for inquiring about the possibility of encountering a poisonous snake while petsitting the goats, I found myself face-to-face with an angry, hissing, six-foot snake poised to strike. Sorry for laughing at you, Mom!

I was working from home on a pleasant afternoon last month. The dogs were out in the courtyard while I tapped away on the computer in my office. Suddenly, Dash started barking crazily and I heard a loud noise that sounded just like a weed-wacker right outside the courtyard doors. Wondering why the gardener had come two days early, I stepped outside to inquire.

I strode down the cobblestone walkway to the courtyard doors, but stopped mid-stride as I took in a horrific sight: wrapped around, of all things, a creepy garden gargoyle was a gigantic snake. I know it is a hackneyed expression, but my heart really did skip a beat...and promptly sank to my toes.

It gets worse. This was no garter snake. Long, thick, with dry patterned scales and a triangular head, it looked exactly like a rattlesnake.

It gets worse. Dash was protecting his territory with the ferocity of a drug lord. Barking frantically and bobbing and weaving, Dash had the snake cornered. The snake, for its part, was not taking things lying down. The top half of its body was coiled and its head was ready to strike. The awful weed-wacker sound was actually the snake's frenzied hiss. I though a hiss was supposed to be a soft or gentle sound, but in this case, the hiss was more like a buzz.

It gets worse. Dash did not respond to my command to GET INSIDE THE HOUSE. (My good, sweet, obedient Fenway, on the other hand, barreled inside the house as fast as his stumpy little legs would carry him. He does not like conflict and had strategically positioned himself behind a bush where he could watch Dash fight to the death, but from a safe distance.) In order for me to grab Dash, I would have to come within a foot of a snake's open mouth, and I would have to bend down...to eye level.

I paused for only a moment, considering. Fenway is my baby and he now is safe inside. Dash is not listening, so if he gets bitten it's his own stupid fault right? Egh. I knew I wouldn't hang him out to dry. Darn you, Dash!

I have big cheeks and a moon face, a perfect target for a snake's fangs. "And so this is how it all goes down," I thought to myself, wryly. The exact words had come to mind right after I'd taken my bone-breaking fall off Moto and found myself on the ground in a heap like a rag doll, unsure at that moment if my life had changed forever or for just a couple months. Quick as a flash, I stooped down, grabbed Dash, and ran toward the house.

With the dogs safely inside, I grabbed my iphone and ran back outside. I wanted to get a picture of the snake so I could properly identify it. And, truth be told, I knew that if I didn't get a picture, the Wrangler would assume I had seen a little garter snake and was making much ado about nothing.

With Dash out of his face, the snake was gracefully unwrapping itself from the creepiest gargoyle ever (note to self: replace gargoyle with a friendly gnome) and started slithering across the cobblestone walkway. As if on cue, it paused in front of the double doors to the courtyard. Its body stretched the entire length of the two doors--six feet. Click! I snapped a picture. The snake looked at me, nodded, and then slithered over toward the goat yard. My hands began to shake.

I raced over to the goats and shooed them into their kennel, conveniently ignoring the fact that a snake could squeeze into the kennel if it wanted to. I ran back to the last place I'd seen my six-foot intruder. It had disappeared.

I headed back into the house, took a deep breath, and started crying. I tried calling the Wrangler, but he was on the golf course and didn't pick up. I called my in-laws, who instructed me to call animal control and offered to take a look at the photos of the snake to help identity it. I also called my dad, who instructed me to get a shovel from the garage, poke around in the bushes to find the snake, and then cut its head off. Wow.

When the Wrangler arrived home, he concurred with my dad that using a shovel to...uh...remove the snake's head is the proper way to kill a snake. Perhaps. But I feel only 5% confident that such technique would work for me and not backfire most dreadfully. I envisioned a furious snake either (a) wrapping itself around my shovel and working its way up to my hands and arms, at which point it would form handcuffs and take me down, (b) somehow becoming airborne during the struggle, landing on me, and getting tangled in my hair, (c) regenerating and growing a new head or heads, (d) whispering a final curse as its eyes turn red and its body disintegrates...you get the picture.

After examining the photos, the Wrangler and both dads agreed that the unwelcome visitor actually was a "harmless" gopher snake or bull snake, not a rattler. I was spared some embarrassment, though. First, a gopher/bull snake's defense mechanism is to mimic a rattlesnake and put up an angry fight when confronted. Thus, I wasn't stupid for thinking it was a rattlesnake. Second, the gopher/bull snake is the largest snake in the United States, averaging six feet. Our native California friends later commented that they haven't seen snakes as large as this one.

At the time, I thought my dog was seconds away from being bitten by a rattlesnake. I can't remember ever feeling more frightened. But here's the amazing result. This weekend we were walking through the woods (not here) and a thin, bright green garter snake wiggled its way right across the tip of my boot. Just a month ago, this might have made me hysterical. After coming eye-to-eye with a hopping map six-foot "rattlesnake" wrapped around a gargoyle, a garter snake is nothing but a charming little friend who helpfully eats slugs, bugs, and mice. "Hi buddy," I said, as I calmly walked on by.

Everything is relative.

Registration Day

I spent some time this weekend completing the paperwork to register my herd name and goats with the National Pygmy Goat Association. After a great deal of thought, I chose Leaping Goat Farm as my herd name. I considered Rainy Day Ranch, but it felt wrong since goats absolutely detest rain.

A color side-view photo of each goat must accompany the registration forms. Let me tell you how difficult it is to get a goat to stand still long enough to get a good side-view shot. It took me about an hour to photograph all four goats in this manner, and even then I had to have the Wrangler step in and help. Turns out that goat portrait photography is a two-person job. First, goats do not pose. Second, goats do not understand the command "stay." Third, all the goats want to be in on the fun--they don't believe in letting just one goat get all the attention. Every time I had a picture-perfect shot, another goat would run in front of the camera at the last second. When I tried to separate a goat from the herd, quite the ruckus ensued. I got a side-view all right...a side view of a goat screaming. When a goat screams, his eyes bulge and he sticks out his tongue. It's a comical sight, but perhaps not what the National Pygmy Goat Association is looking for.

After about an hour, I had an adequate side-view shot of each goat. I uploaded the four files to the Target Photo site for printing. I happily went to Target today to pick up my prints. Notice a particular scruffy white monster lurking in the background and marring the otherwise perfect shot of Oscar? Ugh. I'm sending in the photo anyway. I hope the National Pygmy Goat Association registration director has a sense of humor.

Goat Off My Back

Mischievous Elmo has a little habit that was cute when he was 14 lbs. but is a rather a pain, literally, now that he's 22 lbs. The agile fellow thinks it's fun to play on my back while I'm crouched down to clean the goat pen. And he doesn't merely get on my back and stay there. No, he takes a flying leap onto my back and lands with a thud. He'll dance around a bit, jump up and down and twirl, launch himself into the air, land on a wine barrel, and then bounce from the barrel to my back. I make a conscious effort to hold myself at a 90 degree angle, but if I so much as slip to 80 degrees, the Elmo Monster takes advantage, quick as a flash. I don't know what feels worse: giving up and serving as a platform for his gymnastics, or trying to right myself while four sturdy hooves fight for traction as they slide down my back.

Yesterday after observing the hoof-induced welts on my back, the Wrangler tried to ascribe some deeper meaning to Elmo's antics.

"Is it some sort of dominance thing?" he wondered.

I shook my head. "Goats aren't like dogs. Elmo isn't trying to send any message. He's just having a blast."

Oh, the google search that ensued. Anyone privy to my internet usage log will see search terms along the lines of "goat on my back" and "goat dominance." After a while, it became fairly clear that Elmo really is just being playful.

But as I sit here wincing when I lean back against my chair, I know that some goat reconditioning is in order. How do I get my goat off my back?

Moto Maintenance

Guess who got a fancy pedicure last week? Moto's feet had been looking a bit worse for the wear. Moto's hind shoes were removed in December when he started stall rest for his bowed tendon. He's more active now--plenty of walking and trotting. We have just a few weeks to go before he'll be cleared to canter. As a result of his increased activity but lack of shoes, his hind hooves had some unsightly cracks. I suspect that this caused his hoof abscess. (Thankfully, the abscess healed in just a few days.) Last Wednesday, the farrier neatly trimmed Moto's hooves and grooves and gave him four spiffy new shoes. We're one step closer to putting the six months of stall rest behind us.

Today Dr. Reese floated Moto's teeth, which is akin to annual routine dental work. Unlike human teeth, horse teeth continue to grow throughout the horse's life. Over time, the horse's teeth may develop sharp, painful edges that make eating difficult. During a dental float the vet sedates the horse and inserts a mouth speculum to keep the mouth open. The vet smooths the teeth with a file or similar tool. The process typically takes about 20 minutes and, because a horse's nerves end close to the gum line instead of inside the teeth, is not painful. Dr. Reese informed me that Moto had several teeth with sharp points, and he'll feel much better now that they're contoured.

Hay Day

I had a new bale of hay delivered last Wednesday. The first bale lasted about six weeks, but we'll start going through hay much more quickly as the goats grow.

There are several different types of hay. I went with our goat girl's recommended orchard hay over the feed store's recommended timothy hay. I don't think it really matters that much; all I know is that I should never feed wethers alfalfa. Alfalfa is a rich, high-protein legume (it's technically not a grass) that can cause wethers to develop urinary stones. It is high-calorie--we had to eliminate the alfalfa from Moto's diet when he started stall rest. Incidentally, it also is delicious. Moto sorely misses his daily alfalfa ration.

I immediately noticed that the hay in this new bale looks and feels much different than the hay in the first bale. The goats had been eating (and greatly enjoying, I might add) long stemmed, leafy hay that was somewhat dry, prickly, and straw-like. It poked through my Uggs and shredded my hands. I started wearing gloves when breaking off sections (flakes) of hay.

In contrast, this new hay is very soft--no gloves needed. I could sleep on this stuff. It's dark green, short-stemmed and has a broad, flat blade. It feels more like regular grass. Whereas the goats gluttonously devoured the old hay, they have taken a rather "meh" approach to the new hay. They're eating, but not as enthusiastically.

Text messages and pictures of hay flew between the goat girl and me this morning. She confirmed that the new bale is high-quality orchard grass, but the previous bale likely was alfalfa. I also called my dad, who asked me if the hay in question was long-stemmed and leafy. Yes and yes. "Sounds like alfalfa," he concluded. Doh! Not good for my wethers.

And so I learned another lesson: I have to know my stuff. I can't rely on others to get it right. I didn't know how to identify different types of hay, and I assumed that the feed store sent me the correct kind. The feed store made an error, but I didn't catch it. It was entirely my fault that my goats ate the wrong hay for six weeks.

Moto's Sweet Sixteen

It was Moto's birthday this week, and all he got was a hoof abscess! A hoof abscess is a fairly common affliction caused by a bacterial infection in the hoof structures. Although it's pretty painful for a horse, an abscess, when treated, typically heals in just a matter of days. When Moto's trainer attempted to ride him on Tuesday, she noticed he was lame. He didn't want to put any weight on his left hind hoof. When she led him back into his stall he opted to sit down instead of stand. By Wednesday morning, his pastern and fetlock had considerable swelling.

I arrived at the barn on Wednesday just in time to observe the vet making her diagnosis. Symptoms of a hoof abscess include lameness (check), swelling in the pastern and fetlock (check), and a pronounced digital arterial pulse (half-check--Moto's was only moderate). Dr. Reese prodded different sections of Moto's hoof to test his sensitivity to pressure. When she thought she had identified the infected area, she injected a nerve block to confirm. She would know that she'd found the infected area if Moto didn't react when she re-administered the hoof test. Unfortunately, due to the swelling, Dr. Reese had to inject the nerve block several times before she noticed a reduced reaction. She wasn't able to confirm with 100% certainty that it's an abscess, but she felt about 90% sure.

Treatment calls for a daily 30-minute hoof soak in Epsom salt and water (the Epsom salt draws the bacteria out of the hoof), wrapping in a special treatment boot to protect the hoof from dirt and manure, and a daily dose of medicine to reduce swelling. He seems to be on the mend. Hopefully, he will get the "all clear" on Monday.

We celebrated his birthday today at the barn with carrots, carrot cake cupcakes, and apples for all. Moto loved the special attention and ate it up. Literally.

More

Don't adjust your screen....
Elmo is standing on the photographer's back 

If you can bear with yet more goat news, I will tell you that 3.5 goats are litter box trained now. I say 3.5 because Oscar only sort of gets it. He puts his front hooves in the litter box, but fails to scoot the back (and most important) half of his body into the box. Come on, Oscar! Even baby Neko gets it.

Each goat got a bath in the mudroom sink today. I think they enjoyed the nice warm water even though they didn't want to admit it. I was expecting loud meltdowns, but only Oscar cried--and it really was just one or two half-hearted m-e-h-h-h-h-hs. I used all-natural lavender shampoo and conditioner for pets. Lavender is a natural insect repellant, so I'm hoping this will be enough. I hate the thought of chemical pet shampoos.

Believe it or not, goats are not the only thing on our minds around here. We visited Moto, who seems to be warming up to the Wrangler. The Wrangler knows the ropes now and can handle the grooming and hand-walking with ease. Moto just received his routine quarterly vaccinations and is scheduled for his annual teeth floating next Monday. It's remarkable to see how much his mood has improved since he was cleared to resume trotting. Moto's trainer says she can tell that he's glad to be "back to work," and I sure can tell the difference, too. He's less impatient and seems more relaxed. His winter weight is coming off, and he is as handsome as ever.

And so things are happy here. I did, however, halt our quest to buy a farm in this area. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that it's truly beautiful 'round these parts. The climate is pleasant for animals, and I've met some wonderful people in this little town, people I now call friends. But I can't shake my vision of a charming country cape surrounded by acres and acres of green grass on rolling hills and trees that explode with color in the fall. I see an old barn and spacious fenced paddocks for content goats and sheep and horses and chickens. I smell an approaching thunderstorm, and I hear raindrops falling. I see fireflies light up a summer night. I feel the change in the air as summer fades. I revel in the mere possibility of a snow day. I breath in the crisp air when I throw open all the windows on the first day of spring. In the past year, I've made some real progress toward my dream that is the Rainy Day Ranch....I might as well keep going until I get there.

This Bird Didn't Get the Worm(s)

I've been a helicopter parent to these four goats, watching them like a hawk, marking up goat care books with highlighters and post-it flags, and diligently recording their every move. Just yesterday I was feeling at the top of my game. I was an amaaazing goat mom. And then today I suffered a major blow: the Big Boys have worms.

I was fooled because they were given de-worming medicine the day I brought them home, and they're not due for another routine dose until late June. They look and act healthy. They're energetic and lively. They're growing big and strong. They have good appetites. They have normal poop...or so I thought. It never occurred to me to ask our goat girl what normal goat poop looks like. I knew that goats leave pellets ("berries"). Mine leave tidy little clumps of pellets that are easy to sweep up. I didn't know until I happened to read something on a goat-related website today that clumps mean worms. OH NO!

I can't believe these poor little guys have had worms for at least five weeks and on my watch. As directed, I gave all four goats a pea-sized amount of ivermectin, but I'm worried sick. Of course everything I read on the internet assures me that the goats are probably at death's door. I frantically tried to check their eyeball membranes and gums for a healthy hue. Some articles say these should be red, while others say pink. White, apparently, means call 911 because the animal is dangerously anemic. Checking goat eyeball membranes and gums is much easier said than done. The goats really did not enjoy this extra attention. And I'm still not sure if the membranes and gums are white, pink, or red.

I hope the ivermectin dose was correct. Too much and you kill the goat. Too little and the worms develop resistance to the deworming medication. Something tells me that I'll be obsessing about goat poop for the next few days. If the clumps aren't replaced by loose pellets in a couple days, I guess we are off to the goat vet.

Update: I just read a few articles that say clumpy poop isn't harmful and doesn't mean worms, so long as it is a clump of berries and not clump that looks like dog poop. Clearly, I now am obsessed with goat poop. I am breathing a little easier, but I suspect I won't be completely at ease until I've taken my kids to the livestock vet.

Goats Galore

It's been a week since my last goat update, and I'm happy to report that all is well. Neko's weight fluctuates, but she's more or less about seven pounds. She's more playful now, which is a good sign. She bounces on the little trampoline, plays on the wine barrels, and isn't afraid to get things going with the Big Boys. I've begun weaning Grover, who now is 12 pounds. He's down to just two bottles a day, and next week he will get only one per day. The Big Boys will hit the 20-pound mark this weekend. All four goats sleep in the same doghouse now. When I arrive at the goat pen in the morning, four heads peek out and it's chaos as each goat tries to be the first one to squeeze out of the doghouse.

Their personalities are still developing, but giant Oscar is snuggly and loves attention. Elmo is affectionate as well as dynamic and comes up with the big ideas during playtime. He and Oscar are very athletic and love to chase, leap, jump, and do fancy twists in the air. Grover is feisty. He throws huge fits while he's waiting for his turn to be bottle-fed: he head-butts the Big Boys, stamps his hooves, and bleats up a storm. Neko is just starting to come out of her shell. All of the goats have shed their shyness and enjoy playing with people.

Before I left town last weekend for a short trip to Minneapolis, I typed up a nine-page goat care instruction manual for the Wrangler. He dutifully checked off tasks on the list for Friday but I don't think he consulted the manual at all on Saturday or Sunday. The goats were happy and healthy when I returned, so I guess it's okay that the Wrangler failed to adhere to my hour-by-hour plan or write copious notes in the barn journal. It seems that the Wrangler's style of goat management is a bit more relaxed than mine, but both styles get the job done.

Neko

I weigh tiny Neko everyday to make sure she's growing. It's been a week since I brought her home, and she still was just five pounds when I weighed her this morning. Grover is nearly twice her size and has gained a pound. I texted our wonderful goat girl (who, incidentally, told me that she hated being called the goat girl in school--sorry Breanna!), and she came right over, armed with all kinds of supplies.

She brought a bottle of frozen Boer goat's milk, as well as a huge jug of fresh Boer goat's milk (so fresh it was still warm) mixed with a couple spoonfuls of powered colostrum. She brought some probiotic paste and a syringe loaded with an antibiotic. We took Neko's temperature, which was 101.5 and, thankfully, more or less normal for a goat. Since her temperature was normal, she didn't need the antibiotic. We gave her some of the probiotic paste. Breanna left instructions to give Neko some probiotic paste each day, to add colostrum powder to her bottle, and to increase her bottle feedings from three per day to four.

Neko seemed to enjoy the extra midday feeding, and I was thrilled to see her actually playing in the goat run late this afternoon. She hopped up on the barrel and did a few joyful jumps. When I saw her, I did the same. I'm hoping that the extra 4 oz. of milk, colostrum powder, and probiotic paste will do the trick. I want her to be a happy, healthy, chunky little monkey like Oscar and Elmo.

Popcorn and Hugsie

Breaking news! For our wedding anniversary, the Wrangler has given me two Southdown Babydoll lambs. They are wethers and will be ready to come home the last week of May.

Here's Popcorn sitting in the grass, and that's Hugsie with his mama.

They aren't twin brothers, but they are roughly the same age.

Got Milk?

Neko cried for her mama all day Thursday and Friday, but yesterday she settled down and settled in. She hasn't cried at all today. She's in good spirits, but she doesn't drink much milk. Bottle babies at this age (five weeks old) should drink about 15% of their body weight in milk each day, split among three feedings. That's roughly five ounces for Neko and seven ounces for Grover, three times a day. For the first couple days Neko was drinking only an ounce or two at each feeding. She didn't act like a sick goat, but her posture was hunched and her tail firmly planted--both signs of distress. She is so small for her age and needs to pack on some pounds, pronto. Yesterday morning, near tears, I handed a bottle of warm milk to the Wrangler. Neko had barely touched it when I tried to feed her. Well, surprise, surprise; the Wrangler has the magic touch. Neko drinks double the amount of milk when the Wrangler feeds her. She polished off a full four ounces for him during her mid-afternoon feeding, and I couldn't be happier.

Greedy Grover finishes his bottle in about 30 seconds. He begs for more, but after he drinks his seven ounces his little tummy looks and feels full of milk. I don't want him to get bloat, which is a dangerous condition caused by a number of things including overeating. He's so cute when he drinks. He crouches down, front legs tucked underneath him and rump in the air, in the same position he'd assume if nursing on his mama. Neko prefers to drink her bottle on the Wrangler's comfy lap.

When Grover's and Neko's goat mama got mastitis and couldn't nurse, the breeder began bottle feeding with milk from her full-sized Boer goat. The breeder gave us some of the Boer goat's milk, which I fed to the babies on Thursday and Friday. I need to transition them to commercial (store-bought) goat's milk, but I didn't want to make any dietary changes while they still were stressed from the move. Neko's so tiny that she can't afford to get sick. I suspect that a bout of the scours could be life threatening to a five-pound goat. Consequently, I'm transitioning the babies from the breeder's goat's milk to store-bought goat's milk very, very slowly so as not to upset their tummies.

Pygmy goat's milk is rich and high in butterfat. To create a suitable commercial substitute milk for Pygmy goat kids, the National Pygmy Goat Association recommends mixing one quart pasteurized whole goat's milk with 1/2 cup organic heavy cream. Goats and cows can transfer certain diseases to other goats and cows through raw milk, so it's important to use only pasteurized milk unless you know the milk source is disease-free. 

I just began the transition by feeding the bottle babies a mixture of 3/4 Boer goat's milk and 1/4 store-bought milk. I will gradually increase the amount of store-bought milk until they are on 100% store-bought milk on Wednesday.

The Big Boys

Forgive my absence the past few days, but things are just settling down around here. Although my first night with the bottle babies went well, Thursday and Friday were ca-ray-zy. Remember my sweet, timid little baby goats Oscar and Elmo? They turned into Big Boys overnight. Suddenly they look huge--partly because they really are growing, and partly because they weigh three times as much as the bottle babies. Heavyweight Oscar tips the scales at 17.4 pounds and lumbers over my five pound baby girl Neko. Shy Oscar is not shy at all anymore. I guess the introduction of two new goats to the herd gave him some confidence. He's large and in charge. For two days he tried to head-butt those poor babies to the moon. A baby couldn't walk by without getting checked, hockey-style, into the fence, wall, or water bucket. Poor Grover ran into his doghouse for protection, but Oscar dove in right after him.

Elmo mostly refrained from beating up on the bottle babies, but he'd get in a head-butt once in a while. The goat girl told us that the four kids would work it out and settle down in a few days, so I let them do their thing for the most part. But this required keeping a close and constant eye on the babies and the Big Boys. I did intervene a few times when it looked like a baby was scared. Neko, who is light as a feather and looks like a fur ball, didn't get picked on as much as Grover. She climbed into the hay manger and ignored the scuffles. Today Grover decided he'd had enough. He jumped up on the barrel, stood on his hind legs, did a huge leap with an amazing twist, and went head to head with giant Oscar. By this evening there still were two distinct cliques, but at least the babies were more or less holding their own.

Pygmy Goats: Round Two

The night is young, so perhaps I'm jinxing myself by saying that bringing home the bottle babies was a piece of cake. Maybe it's because I'm an old pro now; maybe it's because the new goats appreciated being plopped down in a goat pen with other goats; maybe it's because bottle babies are more familiar with people and less dependent on their goat mama. At any rate, there were no screams or crying tantrums. With Oscar and Elmo's epic meltdown fresh in our minds, the Wrangler and I had braced ourselves for the worst. But Grover and Neko made the transition pretty well. They definitely were timid and nervous, but they were quiet and didn't mind sitting on our laps.

Equally shocking, I'm handling things much better this time around. I was so worried about Oscar and Elmo those first few days! I didn't sleep a wink and my pulse raced. But goat-induced anxiety attacks are so three weeks ago. I'm fairly calm right now, and I've only peeked at the goat pen twice since tucking them in an hour ago.

At just five weeks old, the bottle babies are tiny. TINY. I'm glad the weather has been warm and there's no need to mess around with a heat lamp. The Wrangler thought that the four goats would end up sharing one doghouse at night, but I suspected it wouldn't work that way. I was right. Oscar and Elmo, while not overly hostile, were not exactly delighted to meet their new herd members. They ignored the babies for the most part, but both Oscar and Elmo raised their hackles. When we tucked the goats in for the night, we did see Elmo give one of the babies a good night headbutt before each set of twins settled into their respective doghouse.

We'll see what tomorrow brings. The refrigerator and freezer are stocked with goat's milk and baby bottles. The first bottle feeding is at 7 AM.

Oscar, the Incredible Flying Pygmy Goat

Bread and Candles and Soap and Goats

My beeswax container, votive, and tea light candles

Goat's milk soap from our goat breeders

Maybe it was the three cups of caffeinated tea that got me moving, but today I bought some supplies for the bottle babies Grover and Neko (who will be here Wednesday), mixed up some bread dough, melted a couple pounds of beeswax and made candles, and discussed soap-making with the goat girl and her mom. They came by with a few bars of their homemade goat's milk soap and shared some of their tips. I am so getting a dairy goat!

Rainy Day with the Goats

It was a cold and rainy day with thunder, lightning, waterspouts over the ocean, flash floods--the whole shebang. Goats do surprisingly well in cold weather, but they hate getting wet. Oscar and Elmo opted to play in the covered patio area and didn't step even one tiny hoof into the yard today.

Our goat girl braved the rain and came over to supervise me as I trimmed the boys' hooves for the first time. I was nervous, but we all made it through unscathed. The goat girl helped me plan for the bottle babies and spent time answering my many questions. I've been texting questions to her every other day for the past two weeks, and let me tell you that I practically have to sit on my hands to keep from texting questions every single day. We also chatted about different goat breeds, keeping milk goats, and the show goat circuit. (I'm this close to being a stage mom...I already have big dreams for Elmo.)

It's humbling to think how much our goat girl (a very nice young woman in her late teens) knows about goats. She started raising them as a little girl in 4-H and now is a successful and respected goat breeder. Even the folks at the local tack and feed store call her when they have a goat to neuter, which she does in exchange for a 45-lb. bag of grain. When I was a little girl I was in 4-H too, but I guess suburban 4-H kids miss out on the good stuff. Instead of raising goats, we did things like put on skits about recycling. Eghh.

The goats went to bed at 6:30 as usual, but I roused them around 9:30 so I could check on their pen. The doghouse was relatively warm, and the pen was dry. I tucked them back in, but I have a long night of spot checks ahead of me if the rain doesn't subside.

Here's a video of the boys playing in the covered area today. Damp weather, yes. Damp spirits? Hardly.