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.

The Writing Is on the Wall

This weekend we toured several potential properties and, lo and behold, found the perfect little farmhouse! It's cute as a button, completely renovated with a good layout, and an easy commute to work. The front of the house overlooks two wonderfully flat south-facing acres that need happy farm animals and a lavender labyrinth. The back of the house has a yard that is calling for Fenway and Dash. The property is almost surrounded by trees and even has a little pond. The icing on the cake? It's priced so far below our target range that it didn't even appear in our realtor's search parameters. (The frugal-minded Wrangler happened to find the listing online.) The property's very reasonable price would allow us build a small barn, put up fencing, and purchase the lavender plugs without having to pinch too many pennies.

Instead of submitting an offer, however, I found myself emailing the listing to one of our friends who also is looking for a small farmhouse in the area. I know, right? The only thing wrong with this property is that it isn't in New England and, as it turns out, I guess that's the deal killer for me.

Busy as a Bee

I attended a beekeeping class today at the Ecology Center. I could write for days about bees. Everything about bees is wondrous: their social structure, their crucial role in pollinating plants, the creation of the honeycomb, the complexity of the honey-making process....The Wrangler and I were enthralled when the apiarist described how bees select their hives. The scouts check out nearby "real estate" and report back to the colony. Each scout performs a dance that discloses the location of a potential site by conveying the angle of the sun's location, the distance, and direction. The bees buzz off to view the properties and then select the new hive via a democratic process.

Without veering off into Debbie Downer territory by lamenting colony collapse disorder, Africanized ("killer") honey bees (which descend from a colony of hybrid bees that were interbred by a biologist in the 1950s and accidentally released), bees feeding on nectar and pollen from genetically-modified or pesticide-laden plants, and the adverse consequences of interstate transportation of bees for commercial agricultural purposes, I will say only that we humans seem to be messing up things for the bees. Did you know that some commercial apiaries feed their honeybees a junk food diet of high fructose corn syrup instead of the nectar from flowers? The honey produced by these poor bees basically is reprocessed high fructose corn syrup.

En route to the beekeeping class, the Wrangler and I had discussed the medicinal aspects of lavender while mulling over my lavender farm plans. During the class, the apiarist briefly touched on the antibacterial and antiseptic properties of honey. I hadn't given much thought to the symbiosis of lavender and honey! From cultivation to purpose, they seem to be a perfect match...the bee's knees, if you will.

March 28

Oscar and Elmo will be ready to leave their goat mama on March 28th! There is so much to do around here to get ready: a meet-and-greet with the goat veterinarian, visiting the feed store for hay and bedding, designing a goat house and pen, and preparing our canine monster Dash to be a gracious and kind host.

Unlike gentle Fenway, Dash flips out if he so much as glimpses a furry friend on TV. We solicited the help of a dog trainer, who introduced a surprisingly calm Dash to her mellow German Shepherd dog. This was encouraging. We're working with Dash on ignoring distractions. I'm sure it will take days if not weeks to slowly introduce Dash to the goats, but we are hopeful that all four-legged family members can happily co-exist.

The Wrangler Rides Again

This weekend the Wrangler decided to get in on the horse action and took a lesson at a nearby barn. It's sort of a long story, but the crux is that he rode a Peruvian Paso, which is a horse known for its exceptionally smooth ride. It has a four-beat, lateral gait instead of a trot and is usually ridden in a western saddle. The ride is so smooth that there are competitions in which riders carry glasses of champagne without spilling a drop. Since the rider doesn't bounce up and down, the Peruvian Paso has become a favorite for older riders with back problems.

Of course, while this all sounds pretty good to me (and my bad back), this makes the Wrangler a little uneasy. He's seeking manly cowboy adventures on a rugged trail, not champagne-glass-balancing exploits with arthritic and geriatric ladies in an arena. As I mentioned, how the lesson came about in the first place is sort of a long story, but the Wrangler was a good sport and seemed to enjoy it. I observed the lesson, and it was striking to see how the rider really does not move an inch up or down or front to back. It's almost as if the rider is floating atop the horse.

Other riders at the barn commented that the Wrangler looked like a natural on Junior, a beautiful Peruvian Paso who will be featured on the reality show America's Favorite Trail Horse. Hmm, is there a new reality TV star in the making?

Hitting the Books

Maybe it's because I'm old-fashioned and don't like reading things on a computer screen, but when it comes to researching a new project or idea, I start by buying a book on the subject...or, rather, every book on the subject. I probably own every single book currently in print on lavender; raising chickens, goats, donkeys, and sheep; keeping bees; harvesting maple syrup; growing pumpkins; and urban farming. Overkill? I think not. One of these years I'll get around to tapping some maple trees and will be oh-so-glad to have plenty of informative books on hand. (I absolutely love libraries but, oddly enough, I rarely can find the latest books on such topics as creating lavender labyrinths and starting a sugarbush.)

But after I tore into the box of books on paper making that arrived today, I realized that I need get with the now and start with free research online. I can't entertain every whim by ordering a shipment of instructional books right off the bat. I read just one chapter on paper making before deciding that paper making is for the birds. Turns out, it is fairly complex and involves special equipment, techniques, and processes. There even was a chapter on lye, a substance that reduces me to a shaking, shivering mess.

Eghh. Now I'm stuck with five books on paper making. They'll find their place right next to my books on artisan chocolates. A quick google search would have informed me that making chocolates is a sophisticated exercise in chemistry (I had pictured merely pouring some batter into molds). A quick google search would have revealed that making lovely stationery is not as simple as whipping up a paste and spreading it out to dry.

On second thought, I'll donate these books to the library. While I'm there, I'll check the shelves to see if another donor learned a similar lesson on creating lavender labyrinths and starting a sugarbush.

Horse Poor

There are people who are "house poor." They spend all their money on their house. And there are people who are "horse poor." They spend all their money on their horse. Our realtor pointed this out to me as she tried to explain why so many horse properties around here have amazing equestrian facilities but not-so-amazing houses.

Well, folks, I think I'm headed down the horse poor path. Moto just had his 60-day check-up for his bowed tendon. (For at least the next six months, he will get a check-up and a diagnostic ultrasound every 60 days.) Thankfully, the healing process is underway, and the vet is pleased with his recovery so far. She recommended daily therapeutic ultrasound treatments, which can shorten the recovery period. If I rent the device, the vet will show me how to administer the treatment myself.

Guess what? Renting medical equipment is not exactly cheap. Moto is expected to make a full recovery regardless of whether he receives daily ultrasound therapy, so it's not like the treatment is absolutely necessary. I've been a horse owner for just two weeks, and I have to decide if I'm going to be the kind of owner who (a) leaves well enough alone or (b) goes the extra mile. I want to go the extra mile.

When it comes to my own health, though, I usually leave well enough alone. I dismissed ultrasound treatment for my own injuries last year as a charlatanish, pseudo-medical therapy--the rich man's Vicks Vapor Rub. Did it really help me heal? I was skeptical.

My lower back still gives me trouble. Quackery or not, ultrasound therapy might be worth another try. I'll have the equipment at my disposal for a couple months. I think you can see where I'm going with this. "Scoot over, Moto, it's my turn now...."

Rainy Day

It was a wonderful, refreshing, cozy rainy day here on the farm. This kind of weather makes me forget New England for a moment. The drizzle let up by early evening, so I met my riding instructor at the nearby barn where she keeps her own two horses. She splits her time teaching riding lessons at Moto's barn in Orange County and working for her family's nursery. She also tends to her horses for an hour or two every single day.

I'm trying to learn everything and anything about horse care, so I tagged along as she turned out and fed her horses. I was like a four-year-old kid who asks too many questions: "Why...?" "How...?" "What...?" My nonstop chatter disrupted the otherwise tranquil twilight, but my saintly instructor's patience never wore thin.

It was raining again by the time I got home. It would have been a perfect night for chili or stew, but I was so engrossed in horsey stuff that I forgot to pick up ingredients for dinner. I did stir up a batch of my homemade granola, so the house smells delightful if nothing else.

As I write this I hear raindrops on the roof, soft sighs from the pets, and the Wrangler's guitar. Life is good when it rains.

The Foster Farms

I spent part of the weekend traveling from barn to barn to check on my animals at their respective "foster farms." My first stop on Saturday was Moto's barn up in Orange County. It seems like everyone I know has asked me when Moto is coming to live with us on the farm. While I'd love to reply, "today," it's probably going to take years. Folks, I know next to nothing about caring for a horse! I can groom him and sort of ride him (I'm not going to be auditioning for the National Velvet remake anytime soon). I know what he eats each day: one flake of grass and 1/2 flake of alfalfa for breakfast and dinner, a bran mash with supplements for lunch, and about 10-20 gallons of water. (Don't ask me how much hay is in a flake, though.) I know that he needs new shoes every six weeks. And that's about the extent of my knowledge. So you can see why, despite the somewhat alarming bill for his room, board, and training, I'm quite happy keeping him at his show barn where we are surrounded by experts--horse trainers, grooms, riding instructors, veterinarians, farriers, and knowledgable friends. It's nice to have people around to answer my questions, and Moto enjoys being around his horse buddies too. Each day the barn staff ensures that Moto is blanketed, exercised, fed, and watered; his health is monitored; and his stall is cleaned. Someone magically produces the aforementioned flakes of hay and equally magically disposes of the 50+ lbs. of manure that Moto produces daily. I do want to be a hands-on horse mom, but I've got to know how to manage my new 1400-pound family member.

The Wrangler and I also dropped in on the goat girl to check on Elmo and Oscar. Nearly a week old, they are starting to get spunky. The kids hopped around, hid under chairs, jumped onto the playset, butted heads with the other babies, climbed into the hay feeder, followed their moms, nursed, and crashed in a heap under the heat lamp. It wasn't chaotic or crazy, though. It was more like a funny episode of goat TV.

We're close to adding yet another foster farm to our route. The Wrangler is working out the miniature donkey details. Our plan is to pay for their room and board at the breeder's farm until we're ready to bring them home.

And so our hobby farm dreams are coming along. We've certainly got the hobby part down. Now we just need the farm.

Elmo and Oscar

Two days old!