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.

Moto's Morning

I met the vet at Moto's barn bright and early this morning on my way into the office. I arrived just in time for the diagnostic ultrasound on his bowed tendon. Dr. Reese is the ideal vet: confident, competent, and genuinely caring. She is as good with people as she is with horses. She patiently explained the ultrasound images in detail. She didn't seem to mind my barrage of questions, many of which were probably stupid, but she never let on.

Moto is making excellent progress. He's completed his fourth (!) month of stall rest and his recovery is progressing as expected. He now can be ridden at the trot for the next two months. If all goes well, he can be ridden at the canter in June. I expressed my nervousness at moving to this next phase, but Dr. Reese explained that it's not only safe, it's also necessary. The gradual increase in weight on the tendon rebuilds the tissue--walking puts more weight on it than standing; trotting puts more weight on it than walking; cantering puts more weight on it than trotting; and the ultimate weight-bearing exercise is jumping. I don't intend for Moto to resume his show jumping career, so I think we'll be just fine once he is cleared to canter again.

Stay with me now only if you're up for a recap that screams Too Much Information. About once a year, a gelding needs to have his sheath cleaned. It's not the most pleasant thing to do, but it is essential. Smegma (dirt and excretions) builds up in the sheath, creating lumps or "beans" that must be removed. It was time for Moto's cleaning today.

The vet gave Moto a mild sedative to get him to, uh, relax his sheath, and we waited for the drug to kick in. It was kind of funny to be responding to work emails on my Blackberry while constantly glancing over to see if Moto had "let down" his privates. What's that saying--a watched pot never boils? Modest Moto had to be given another sedative to fully relax. It's always sad to see a sedated horse. They sweat, drool, and hang their sleepy heads. The cleaning took much longer than I expected. Although my horse books provide instructions for sheath cleaning, I've decided that I'm very happy to pay the vet to do this particular procedure. I haven't received the bill yet, but I feel certain that the vet earned every cent.

Cleaning complete, I thanked the vet and headed to the office. By 10AM, I'd mucked out a goat pen, witnessed a sheath cleaning, and prepared three documents for filing with the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission. Some days are sorta weird.

Bottle Babies on the Way

I got a text from our goat girl today: Would I be interested in raising Grover and Neko as bottle babies? Unfortunately, their mama has mastitis and can no longer nurse the twins. Ideally, they wouldn't have been weaned until the first week of May.

They'll each require a bottle three to four times a day. I wasn't expecting two more goats until May, but I'm up for the challenge. I agreed to take the babies after the weekend; we'll need a couple days to get the goat pen ready.

Zero to four kids in two weeks. Life moves fast on the farm.

Leader of the Pack

Elmo strikes a pose while chewing on some hay.

I tried to get a good photo of Oscar, but he doesn't stand still.

Guess who has stopped following his brother around and has started following me? Oscar! After all these years, I finally have a pet who thinks I'm the leader! Woohoo! It's especially nice because just a week ago, Oscar barely allowed me to pet him. Now, only days later, this little chunky monkey of a goat lets me pick him up without any fuss. He sits quietly on my lap, and he loves to be groomed. He follows me as I do my chores. When I enter the goat pen, he runs up to me and gives me a welcoming "m-e-h-h-h-h-h-h."

It's National Pet Day, whatever that is. At my house, every day is pet day. Here's to you, Moto, Oscar, Fenway, Elmo, and Dash (listed by size).

That's Not a Mess. That's "London Bohemian."

Unless I'm expecting guests, my stacks of books and piles of magazines can be found pretty much everywhere around here. I suppose things would be tidier if I embraced the Nook or Kindle, but that's never going to happen. What the Wrangler doesn't understand is that my stacks and piles are rather organized. It might look like clutter, but I actually know where everything is.

The other night I was flipping though Town & Country magazine (to which I've subscribed since I was in grade school; old habits die hard) and was delighted to read Gully Wells' description of "one of America's most intellectually exciting households." He was referring to the Andrew Cockburn family, whose "style of decor is what you might call London bohemian...endless piles of books, magazines, and newspapers, slightly crooked lampshades--in other words, very English and a long way from the manicured chic of their neighbors. No wonder Mick [Jagger] felt right at home [with the Cockburns]."

Excellent! So there you have it. Endless stacks and piles are not messy; they're a decorating style!

Mow in Peace

Last week after I ran interference and all but tackled the gardener in the courtyard to make him turn off his industrial, 90-decibel weed wacker before he scared the baby goats, I decided to dismiss the gardener from courtyard duties and tend to them myself. My first order of business as the new master of the courtyard was to find a hand-powered (translation: quiet) lawn mower. I expected to pay around $350 for a decent mower but was pleasantly surprised to find one for only $70. As I clicked "submit order" on the web page, I felt nothing but doubt. I've been burned by many an unsuccessful gadgety purchase. But since it was only $70 for a lawn mower, I rolled the dice.

My mower arrived today. Assembly was simply snapping the handle into the mower (30 seconds). I took it for its inaugural whirl around the courtyard and, hey, whaddya know? It works perfectly! (Caveat: this might not be the best option if you have a large area to mow.) I love my swift, silent, hand-powered mower. Interestingly, Fenway does not. Gentle, docile Fenway kept attacking it, and I don't think he was playing. I finally had to put him inside the house so I could mow without risk of slicing his button nose.

Grover and Neko

Despite all the excitement that Oscar and Elmo have brought to our little farm, we can't forget that we will have another set of twin babies ready to leave their mama in a month. We named the wether Grover and the doe Neko. Everything I've read says that goat herds are run by a female, so I guess Elmo (who right now is clearly in charge) will lose his position to Neko. Our goat girl kindly sent some pictures of Grover and Neko getting their first bath today.

McGoat

I'm not trying to promote McDonald's, but this goat is pretty funny (and waaay naughtier than my sweet goats).

The Yuppie Farm

Photo of the Alexandria Coop from the Williams-Sonoma Catalog

The new Williams-Sonoma catalog arrived in the mail today, and I was intrigued to see that even Williams-Sonoma has jumped on the sustainability bandwagon with its new Agrarian product line. The 12-category line includes chicken coops, beekeeping supplies, and Do-It-Yourself kits for items like cheese, vinegar, and sprouts. This latest move has not gone unnoticed. Today a lot of commenters on the homesteading blogs I follow are rather dismayed and disgusted that Madison Avenue is trying to cash in on the back-to-the-land movement. To this I say, "So what?" There's room for everyone here. If you don't want to pay $800 for an attractive, ready-made, Martha Stewart-y chicken coop, then don't. But what's it to you if someone else does?

Here's the thing. Not all of us are handy, own a lot of tools, have a shed filled with scrap wood, and want to devote a month's worth of weekends to going to Home Depot and sawing stuff in the backyard. When I was looking for ideas for goat housing I found only instructions for building one myself. I had to jerry-rig my own version of a goat enclosure, but I gladly would have paid a little extra to buy a Williams-Sonoma version if there were one available. I did laugh, however, at the "chicken coop predator kit" for $59.95. I don't see how it's that much different from the "goat pen predator kit" that I invented last week, which consists of a roll of garden wire from Lowe's for $4.95 and (you guessed it) about 50 zip ties ($2.95 for a pack of 50).

The people protesting the Williams-Sonoma line are probably the same people who have a problem with Pottery Barn. Don't get me wrong; I know that buying mass-produced farmhouse furniture is neither posh nor particularly imaginative. But it's an easy, relatively inexpensive option for people like me who don't like used furniture (I have an abnormal bedbug phobia), don't have an eye for antiques, and don't want a house filled with expensive or one-of-a-kind pieces. Instead of passing out cold if the dog has an accident on an heirloom-quality chair or the Wrangler (who really shouldn't be practicing his short game in the house) accidentally hits a golf ball into a decorative piece from Sotheby's, I can just heave a small sigh, clean up the mess, and reorder the same item--which will arrive in three to five business days from good ole PB.

On the other hand, I will always be partial to things that are homemade. It's especially nice when they look better than my goat pen.

Someone's Got Your Goat

I read in Goats magazine that the expression "someone's got your goat" comes from an Old English tradition of keeping a goat in the barn with dairy cows to keep the cows calm and producing lots of milk. A farmer's enemy would steal the goat, causing the cows to become so agitated that their udders would dry up and leave the farmer without milk.

Alternatively, the expression comes from 19th century horse racing lore. Many racehorses had their own pet goat as a stablemate; the companionship kept the horse happy and calm. Gamblers would try to fix an outcome by sneaking into barns on the night before a big race and abscond with the goat of the projected winner. The distraught horse would run poorly the next day and lose the race.

Although I've owned goats for less than a week, I completely understand the expression. If someone got my goats, I would be devastated. I knew that I'd like having goats, but it turns out that I absolutely love having goats! I'm obsessed. I can't believe I waited this long. I should have gotten goats many years ago. "Would you have dated me if I had goats?" I asked the Wrangler. He said yes, but I wonder. Back in the day, I think we both would have thought that having pet goats was weird.

But how obtuse we were back then. Little did we know that having goats is a joy. I've never been a morning person, but I now look forward to waking at the crack of dawn to let them out. Refilling water buckets and loading up the hay feeders twice a day is peaceful and rewarding. It's hard to explain, but the tasks feel like yoga, a soothing physical ritual. My mind thinks of nothing but the routine. Even mucking out their pen and sweeping up the "nanny berries" (and wow--are there ever a lot of nanny berries!) feel satisfying. Twice a day I get to turn the messy pen into a fresh and tidy little home for my dear four-legged friends. They always are curious and watch me with interest as I complete my chores. I stoop down every now and then to softly scratch their sweet faces.

Each day Oscar and Elmo get more comfortable with me. The loud bleating meltdowns stopped a few days ago, and peace and quiet reigns in the the courtyard now. Elmo loves being petted, scratched, and groomed. Oscar also lets me pet him now, although he still is shy.

Every night at 6:30 they march into their doghouse on their own and tuck themselves in for the night. Adorable!

I've got a five-foot wall, a five-foot fence, a metal 6x8 dog kennel, and video baby monitor in place. Hopefully no one will get my goats....neither literally nor figuratively.

Early To Bed, Early To Rise

Noises on the baby monitor woke me last night around 1AM. I got up to check on things, but Oscar and Elmo appeared to be sleeping soundly in their doghouse. By 2:30AM, after getting up four more times to check on them but finding nothing amiss, I concluded that I was just hearing feedback/static on the baby monitor.

"Wake up," I stood over the Wrangler, looking not unlike a ghost with my white robe and crazy hair. "Do you think it's okay if I turn off the baby monitor? It keeps making nosies, but I need to get some sleep."

"Mmmmff."

I took that as a yes. I turned off the monitor and, for the first time since Friday, I slept soundly until I let out the goats at 7AM.

Elmo is coming out of his shell. He stood still and allowed me to groom him this morning, and by this afternoon he sought me out for kisses and scratches. I was happy to oblige. Oscar is warming up to the idea but still runs away when I move in for the scratch.

I prepared their pen for the night (fresh hay, water, and shavings), and they headed into the doghouse on their own around 6:30. Unfortunately, like any other working father with babies at home, the Wrangler did not get to see the kids today. They were still sleeping when he left for work, and they'd tucked themselves in for the night before he arrived home. He was pretty disappointed. "I didn't get to see even one button nose, pointy ear, or little hoof today," he said dejectedly. I hear him playing peppy tunes on his guitar right now, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's trying to rouse the goats. I better go tell him to let those babies sleep!

Strange Noises in the Courtyard

Day 2

Last night after a few rather loud meltdowns the goats settled quietly into the dog house around 7PM. (The dog house is inside the 8x6 pen). I hit the hay around 10PM but probably slept only few hours at most. The baby monitor alerted me to some stirring in the goat pen around 12:45AM, and I saw Oscar and Elmo standing side by side and chewing contently. The same thing happened around 3:45AM. A couple times I heard coyotes yelping and owls screeching and got up to check the courtyard. Although predatory sounds are commonplace around here, let me tell you that hearing them through your baby monitor is disconcerting to say the least.

This morning for the first time in years--if not ever--I got up before sunrise on my own volition. I didn't have an early flight to catch or a conference call to jump on. Nope, I just was eager to end the long night of adrenaline-fueled responses to crackles over the baby monitor. I wanted to let out the goats and start the day.

As I approached the goat pen, two inquisitive faces peeked out of the dog house. I opened the door to the pen but they didn't rush out. Still timid, Oscar and Elmo literally took baby steps toward the goat run.

I swept the pen and added new wood shavings. I filled the tubs with fresh water and hay. I left for the barn to see Moto around 7AM, and the Wrangler took over the goat watch.

Overall, the boys made lots of progress today. They ate heartily--a good sign. They still ran away from us, but if we sat quietly they slowly approached for a quick sniff or nuzzle before turning and fleeing. Oscar only had two meltdowns, which were nowhere near the decibel level of yesterday's bleat-fest.

Goats hate getting wet. It rained today, and Oscar and Elmo favored the sheltered area near their pen instead of the goat run. After repeating the morning's ministrations of sweeping, cleaning, and filling tubs with fresh water and hay, I tucked them in for the night. I'm satisfied that they'll be cozy in their dog house despite the chilly air and the pouring rain. (But I am going to check on them right now.) I push visions of sad, wet, shivering goats out of my head. I keep telling myself that most goats live in sheds out in a field, so Oscar and Elmo are relatively pampered.

I can't believe I finally have goats.

Goodnight

It's 10PM on a Friday and this cowgirl is calling it a night.

Three nights, one day, and one hundred zip-ties later, the Wrangler's fence project is complete. Time will tell whether it can withstand two goats who want to get out and two Jack Russells who want to get in.

My hands are a mess of cuts and calluses after a week of wrestling with chicken wire, steel posts, and nuts and bolts. Hopefully the goats' nighttime pen is cozy and coyote-proof.

The video baby monitor is installed. The camera, with night vision, is wired to the top of the pen, and the monitor is on my bedside table. Fenway has spent the night watching it with interest.

There's fresh hay in the feeders, cold water in the buckets, baking soda in the pan, a mineral lick in the tray, and a giant container of animal crackers at the ready. As of today Oscar and Elmo are weaned from their mama. They'll have no more milk, but they'll follow the diet required for growing Pygmy goat wethers.

The kid's climber play set is assembled and in the newly fenced goat run, along with other toys.

The goat pen is filled with fresh wood shavings, a cute dog house, and a fluffy blanket.

Despite our best efforts, our setup looks a bit makeshift. That's what happens when you don't have a barn and don't plan on staying. I started out thinking, "What would Martha Stewart do?" but at this point I just hope that our goat enclosures are functional.

As for the goats? I'll give you the full rundown tomorrow. For now I'll leave you with this question: what has four legs and screams bloody murder? Answer: a baby goat on his first night away from his mama. My heart breaks. I'm so glad we didn't separate twins. At least they have each other.

Called Out

I took a vacation day and focused on last minute goat prep today. (The Wrangler, who still has not completed the fencing, will take a vacation day tomorrow.) This morning when the hay delivery guy from the Hawthorne's Country Store in Fallbrook called my cell to ask for directions, I wasn't at home. I was at the Hawthorne's Country Store in Escondido picking up some industrial stall mats for the goat pen. If I had a pick-up truck, I wouldn't need delivery service. I could just toss a few bales into the back of the truck. I'm by no means a neat freak, but transporting rolls of dried grass in the back of my little SUV just sounds really messy.

Despite my lack of a proper pick-up truck, I was still feeling cowgirl-esque and dressed for the part: dusty Frye boots, jeans, plaid shirt, cowboy hat and, well, oversized Chanel sunglasses. After ringing up my purchases, the Hawthorne's cashier paged a nice-looking cowboy to help me load the stall mats into the back of the SUV. He met me in the parking lot with a small forklift carrying the mats. I hadn't realized that the mats would be so heavy...or dirty. The cowboy tried to brush off some of the hay, dirt, and debris.

"Ohhh! I just bought a tarp," I exclaimed, pleased as punch. Not only was I a ranch girl, I was a super-prepared ranch girl. The back seats in the SUV were down, and I fished the tarp out of the bag and began arranging it in the cargo space.

"A tarp?" the cowboy asked. I detected disapproval in his voice.

"Yeah, why? Is there something wrong?" I peered at him through the back of the car, puzzled.

"I guess I just thought you were a real cowgirl, and then there you went putting down a tarp in the back of your Mercedes," he drawled.

Ouch.

"I guess I don't need one," I said quickly.

"No, it's fine," he said. He helped adjust the tarp and then loaded the stall mats. I thanked him and went on my way.

I'll admit that my feelings were kind of hurt! I called the Wrangler, who always makes me feel better. "He said that he thought I was a real cowgirl until he saw my car and I put down a tarp," I lamented.

The Wrangler didn't miss a beat. "You should have told him that you're a fancy cowgirl."

The truth is, I'm not a fancy cowgirl or even a non-fancy cowgirl, and that cowboy today called my bluff.

Nonetheless, I was very happy that I used that tarp, which was littered with dirt and who-knows-what-else when I unloaded the stall mats. Thanks to that tarp, the back of my car is spotless. Instead of cleaning my car, I can hang out with my horse or play with my baby goats. But maybe I need that pick-up truck. It would be handy and all, but I sure could use the street cred.

Put It On My Tab

Despite moving to an avocado farm and becoming a horse owner in the past year, I didn't become a real ranch girl until today. What made today so significant? Well, today I called my tack and feed store of choice (the closest Target store is 30 minutes away, but I live within a 10-minute drive of not one, not two, but five tack and feed stores), opened a tab, and scheduled a hay delivery.

On the Fence

We're picking up Oscar and Elmo on Friday instead of today, because we're still working on fencing. The Wrangler is not having an easy go of it, to put it mildly. I'm secretly a little amused when he struggles, but only because he's exceptionally good at just about everything. He's a natural athlete, talented artist, and strong leader, just to name a few of his many admirable attributes. A handyman, however, he is not.

To be fair, it's not easy installing fencing that must meet so many criteria. It has to be goat-proof and sturdy, temporary and economical (since we're supposedly moving soon), and relatively attractive (as it will be in a prominent part of our yard). I found the perfect solution at Lowe's and checked the online user reviews, which are overwhelmingly positive. Fifty-two out of 52 users claim that the panels are sturdy and look great and are super easy to install. Unless you are the Wrangler.

I've never heard him utter a swear or curse, but oh the grunting, muttering, heaving, and sighing that could be heard in the courtyard last night! "I could use some help over here," he called to me, as I toasted my hands by the cozy fire.

"The user reviews online said that it's a one-person job," I reassured him. I was feeling smug, having just finished assembling the goats' pen, all eight-by-six-feet of it, All By Myself. It was a real two-person job if there ever was one, and I only had to take it apart and start over twice.

"Please," he pleaded. I peered across the yard. There seemed to be an awful lot of clanging and hammering and not a lot of progress. I agreed to hold a fence panel while he pounded the accompanying metal stake into the ground, but I eventually moseyed off to check email. I wasn't being a complete jerk; remember, I had put together the pen. I just needed to take a break.

More grunts and muttering and an occasional "darn it!" ensued for the next three hours.

I pulled up the online reviews from the Lowe's website and quoted a few to plead my case for lounging by the fire instead of helping. "This review from an 80-year old with a broken hip says that the best thing about the fence is its ease of installation," I informed the Wrangler encouragingly. "Oh, and this one written by a single mom says that she was able to put it together in no time, by herself, and with her five kids running around." (These are actual reviews. I'm not being facetious.)

I made the Wrangler stop for the night around 10:30. Even out here in the country, it's not polite to hammer past bedtime. He had managed to install nine panels in the dark. Not too bad! Nine panels down, 11 to go.

This morning I strode into the courtyard to observe his work. Would you believe that six of the nine panels were installed backwards?

Three panels down, 17 to go.

Sea Breezes

Today, which seemed pleasingly farm-ish, began with a chicken workshop at the Seabreeze Organic Farm in San Diego. Located just a few miles from the ocean, the farm is an anomaly amid office parks, new strip malls, and suburban housing. The owner, Stephenie Caughlin, bought the land in 1978 when the area was a pastoral mix of chaparral and eucalyptus groves. A former gold broker and futures trader, Stephenie decided in 1988 to embark on a new endeavor and lifestyle and began building a farm business. Currently the Seabreeze farm follows a CSA (community-supported agriculture) model and has 150 shareholders (CSA members) who pay for weekly deliveries of whatever the farm has produced and harvested that week--organically-grown flowers, vegetables, herbs, fruit, and eggs.

Several of the chicken seminar attendees brought young children, which created a chaotic atmosphere that was more petting zoo than informational. As a result, I didn't learn as much as I'd hoped and was somewhat disappointed. The ever-patient Wrangler observed that at least the parents were making an effort to provide their kids with a farm experience instead of, say, a trip to the mall, so I guess I'll give them all a pass.

The trip to Seabreeze was worth the time for, if nothing else, assuring me that a lot can be done with just two acres. A LOT. The farm started out with over 20 acres, but over the past 30 years of urban sprawl the farm has dwindled to just two acres. With the main residence, a number of outbuildings, and even a straw bale guest house occupying about one of the two acres, Stephenie has just one acre to raise chickens, turkeys, goats, and a pony and grow enough fruits, vegetables, and flowers to provide weekly deliveries for the 150 CSA members. Every inch of space has been put to a productive use, although the farm doesn't feel cramped or crowded (and boasts lovely ocean views to boot). This is in sharp contrast to most of the properties that we've seen lately in our house hunting trips. We've toured four-acre plots--twice the size of Stephenie's farm--with no space for gardens or animals because most of the property has been wasted on decorative lawns, stone patios, huge driveways, swimming pools, mini-putting greens, and tennis, basketball, and pickleball courts.

I loved seeing how much can be accomplished with just half the amount of land that we've been looking for. Still, think what could be done with 10 acres! (In order to afford 10 acres we'd probably have to leave California....win/win?)

Fencing and Playsets and Pens, Oh My!

In case you haven't noticed, it's All Systems Go for Goats around here this week. There is so much to do and buy: fencing, pens, playsets, dogloos, feeders, waterers, mineral blocks, hay, bedding, a storage shed for the hay and bedding, a pickup truck....

The house is U-shaped with a lovely courtyard in the center. After much back-and-forth, it has been decided that the goat kids will live in the courtyard. There is a large fenced pen on the property that would be ideal for goats, but there are simply too many coyotes, hawks, and owls casing the joint 24/7. It's a wild, wild world out there beyond our courtyard gates, and the fenced pen is not within sight from the house.

The main entrance to the house is via the courtyard, so it would be nice to keep the area as spiffy as possible. Surely someone has designed a practical-yet-elegant goat enclosure. But I haven't seen one yet. Goat pens tend to be of the ugly chain-link fencing variety.

Goats, who climb and hide, love (human) kids' playsets. I had no idea that these little plastic numbers (apparently, they're called "climbers") can run upward of $300! And I don't think the bright orange and teal plastic will look particularly elegant in the Tuscan-styled courtyard, but the wooden climbers cost about five times as much as their plastic counterparts.

Similarly, I'm having a hard time finding an attractive hay storage system. It appears that most folks without barns simply stack bales on pallets and cover them with a tarp.

We're poised dangerously on the brink of becoming "those" neighbors. You know, the ramshackle sort with makeshift fencing, eyesore storage sheds, and toys inexplicably strewn about the yard with nary a child in sight. Oh, Junky Neighbor, how I have judged thee. I now will think twice before tsk-tsking my disapproval from my car window. Perhaps he, too, once fancied himself a Ralph Lauren-sort of rancher. But then he got goats.

We really do need a proper barn.

Barn Decor

I just bought some posters for the barn office from a teachers supply store. For just $5 each, I got 11x17 laminated external anatomy posters of a goat, chicken, sheep, and horse. Um, now I just need a barn office.

Seen and HERD

Our goat girl made a video of her herd, which currently includes Oscar and Elmo. (The brand new babies I reserved today hadn't been born when she made the video.)

Things To Do on Your Lunch Break

Look how big Oscar is now! And don't miss Elmo (standing in the tub).

Gosh, I remember the days not so long ago when, as a relatively young lawyer in Washington, DC, lunch was a time for snappy conversation with fashionable friends at a bustling hotspot. These days, my lunch activities are vastly different--just as fun but perhaps more furry than fashionable. Moto's barn is not far from the office, so I frequently stop in see him around noon. And today during lunch I added a couple goats to my herd...

It began with a text from the goat girl this morning. She had adorable twin pygmy goats born just hours ago. Only 10 hours old, they already seem to be social and inquisitive. Was I interested? Truthfully, I wasn't sure about adding more pygmy pets just now, especially since our farm search has stalled, but I agreed to stop by over lunch. If nothing else, it would be a chance to see Oscar and Elmo.

When I arrived at noon the goat barn was filled with crazy, joyful, happily chaotic sounds and sights. Oscar and Elmo still look like babies, but they look and feel sturdy. Elmo is a lap goat and loves to be held and petted. Oscar is a little timid but runs, jumps, and wrestles with the other goat kids. As I held the precious brand new baby goats and watched the 20+ other goats hopping around, I realized that we need more than two. Goats are herd animals. Two goats really are not a herd, right?

I left the barn with a full heart...and empty pockets (having paid for the two brand new babies, a yet-unnamed boy and girl who will be ready to leave their mama in May). Although the rest of the afternoon was devoted to legal research, memories of my fun-filled lunch hour lingered--literally. My clothes did smell rather goat-y.

The Un-Social Network

Remember when surfing the internet was a fairly solitary sport? I've been missing those pre-social networking days lately. As I wrote last fall, I'd gotten hooked on Pinterest and was happily pinning away, creating my own virtual moodboards. But the social networking aspect took over, and now it's only good manners to follow your Facebook friends' pins. Netiquette pressures threaten my once reclusive guilty pleasure. I no longer can pin just anything that catches my eye--I have to consider the fact that all my friends and acquaintances are going to see it. Case in point: regardless of your political affiliation, you have to feel sorry for Ann Romney who had pundits speculating about her (most likely innocuous) Anna Karenina pin on her Books Worth Reading board. Not that my pins contain any agenda or hidden messages. I just feel sorry for my followers who have to scroll through my pins of lavender, fall foliage, and cute animals...just like I have to scroll through my friends' pins of wedding dresses, baked goods, and kids' birthday party ideas.

On a separate but related note, I think it's creepy when an ad for a lavender conference pops up on Facebook immediately after I post a lavender pin. (Unfortunately, these invasive cross-marketing tactics work. I did click on the ad and register for the conference.) I can't help but suspect that Facebook not only snoops around my Pinterest boards, it also keeps track of my google searches. A few months ago, a relative had gout, and I looked it up on Wikipedia--exactly once. Now Facebook constantly suggests that I join gout support groups; the Facebook algorithm thinks that I'm a lavender-loving girl with gout.

Social networks, please don't judge a girl by her pins...or her google searches. They don't tell the whole story.