As the days shorten, the does grow heavier, their bellies starting to hint at the new life growing inside. Just a few days ago, we started a 'dry' pen, for the goats who have "dried up" or stopped producing milk. So far, just twelve goats are in that pen, but over the next month, it will expand until the entire herd is dried off.
Every year, as we stop milking, I start dreaming about the days to come in January and February, when the snow will fly and the sound of newborns will fill the barn with their tiny bleating cries.The miracle of new life never grows old.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Thirty Dollar Pineapple
Late last fall, the scrawny colt tripped on his way into the sale ring as the driver's whip snapped behind him. Lifting his head, his dark brown eyes' gaze darted in every direction, searching for a way out. The auctioneers voice crackled, crying in vain for a bid on this three-month-old colt with its dirty yellow coat stretched across washboard ribs.
"Thirty dollars! Thirty dollars! Who'll give me thirty dollars for this palomino? He's got color!"
I nudged my husband in the side. "Quick! Raise your hand before it's too late." I looked around the room. I knew the auctioneer wouldn't cry for long. People were ignoring him, and the door swung open on the far side of the ring. In a moment, the colt would be driven out of the ring, back into the pens, as a "No Sale." At the end of the day, someone with a gun would put him out of his misery.
The auctioneer saw my husband's hand before I did. "Thirty dollars!" he hollered. "Sold!"
We left the ring and finally found our colt crammed into a small hog pen at the very back of the auction building. I stroked his neck and felt the muscles bunch tight beneath my hand. "It's okay, buddy," I crooned, but the white-eyed colt wasn't having any of it. He fought us every step of the way to our horse trailer, and three hours later, we ran him down the alleyway into the back stall of our barn. We shook our heads.
"Pineapple" as my daughter christened him, looked more like a withered yellow squash than his namesake. His spindly legs seemed inadequate to hold him upright.
"Weaned too young," my husband said, and I nodded my agreement. With fall approaching, and grass becoming sparse, many people decided to dump foals at the sale barn, rather than feed them through the long mid-western winter. There's no substitute for a mother's milk, and foals weaned too early can die, no matter how much good feed you put in front of them. Throughout those frigid months we wondered often if we'd done the right thing. We put one of our own weaned foals in the stall to keep him company, and he seemed to enjoy the company. Once he overcame his fear of humans, Pineapple's gentle nature surfaced, and our daughter spent many hours brushing and petting him.
When spring came, we turned the two youngsters into the pasture where they could run, play and grow up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, I carried hay out of the barn to give to the horses. Even though they spend all day grazing, we like them to come up near the barn each morning so we can check on them.
Pineapple whinnied in greeting, his eyes soft and warm. Beneath the remnants of some lighter woolly hair on his sides, a beautiful coat shines like a golden coin. His body has filled out and his ribs have vanished. I walked up to the gentle colt, and stroked his soft neck, brushing wisps of hay from his white mane.
"You're a pretty boy, aren't you?" I said, as he munched on a mouthful of alfalfa. It's hard to believe this beautiful, young horse is the same half-starved colt we brought home just seven months and I'm sure glad we gave him a chance.
I don't know how long Pineapple will stay here at Rainbow Gate Farm. Often visitors to our farm will fall in love with a particular foal and they are sold, making way for the new crop of babies born each spring. Many are eventually forgotten, but others are etched forever in our hearts.
Pineapple will canter through my memories for a long time to come.
"Thirty dollars! Thirty dollars! Who'll give me thirty dollars for this palomino? He's got color!"
I nudged my husband in the side. "Quick! Raise your hand before it's too late." I looked around the room. I knew the auctioneer wouldn't cry for long. People were ignoring him, and the door swung open on the far side of the ring. In a moment, the colt would be driven out of the ring, back into the pens, as a "No Sale." At the end of the day, someone with a gun would put him out of his misery.
The auctioneer saw my husband's hand before I did. "Thirty dollars!" he hollered. "Sold!"
We left the ring and finally found our colt crammed into a small hog pen at the very back of the auction building. I stroked his neck and felt the muscles bunch tight beneath my hand. "It's okay, buddy," I crooned, but the white-eyed colt wasn't having any of it. He fought us every step of the way to our horse trailer, and three hours later, we ran him down the alleyway into the back stall of our barn. We shook our heads.
"Pineapple" as my daughter christened him, looked more like a withered yellow squash than his namesake. His spindly legs seemed inadequate to hold him upright.
"Weaned too young," my husband said, and I nodded my agreement. With fall approaching, and grass becoming sparse, many people decided to dump foals at the sale barn, rather than feed them through the long mid-western winter. There's no substitute for a mother's milk, and foals weaned too early can die, no matter how much good feed you put in front of them. Throughout those frigid months we wondered often if we'd done the right thing. We put one of our own weaned foals in the stall to keep him company, and he seemed to enjoy the company. Once he overcame his fear of humans, Pineapple's gentle nature surfaced, and our daughter spent many hours brushing and petting him.
When spring came, we turned the two youngsters into the pasture where they could run, play and grow up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, I carried hay out of the barn to give to the horses. Even though they spend all day grazing, we like them to come up near the barn each morning so we can check on them.
Pineapple whinnied in greeting, his eyes soft and warm. Beneath the remnants of some lighter woolly hair on his sides, a beautiful coat shines like a golden coin. His body has filled out and his ribs have vanished. I walked up to the gentle colt, and stroked his soft neck, brushing wisps of hay from his white mane.
"You're a pretty boy, aren't you?" I said, as he munched on a mouthful of alfalfa. It's hard to believe this beautiful, young horse is the same half-starved colt we brought home just seven months and I'm sure glad we gave him a chance.
I don't know how long Pineapple will stay here at Rainbow Gate Farm. Often visitors to our farm will fall in love with a particular foal and they are sold, making way for the new crop of babies born each spring. Many are eventually forgotten, but others are etched forever in our hearts.
Pineapple will canter through my memories for a long time to come.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Waiting With Lama
Favorites. Everyone has them, and even in a herd of over a hundred dairy goats, there are always a few that stand out. My special girl is an eight-year-old white Saanen doe, called Red. I'm not sure why she's called Red, but she came to us six years ago with that name and it's hers. Red is getting old now, and I wince when I see her walking into the parlor, looking like the caprine equivalent of an old woman. I know her time is coming, but she's had a good life, and she'll stay here until the end.
My daughter's favorite is a young doe called Brownie, and in this case, she is easily identified by her matching color. Brownie comes when you call her name, and I have many stories I could tell about that sweet little goat, but this tale isn't about Red or Brownie. It's about Lama; the goat my son, Sam made a pet of when he still lived at home and helped with chores.
Lama's name was coined from her mother's breeding. She is a cross-bred with the snow-white coat of her Swiss Saanen ancestors and the tiny ears of the American bred La Mancha breed. Hence -- La-Ma which soon became condensed to one word.
Lama is average in every way including her milk production. This year, she is producing just five pounds of milk a day, which means she needs to go down the road, out the door, farewell . . . you get the drift. We aim to keep only does giving eight pounds plus, so when we decided to thin the herd out recently, Lama was marked to be sold.
Knowing Sam had endeared himself to Lama, I called and asked him if he minded. "No, of course not," he said. "If she's not making the grade, you should sell her."
A few days later, Lama ambled through in her usual, not-in-a-particular-hurry way and jumped on the deck to be milked. I thought of the days past, when she would search out my son, and walk to him to be petted, and have her head scratched. She'd always wait on the way out too, because he'd sneak her an extra handful of grain as she left. Even though he's been gone a while now, to this day, when leaving the parlor, she still turns her head and looks, as though she hopes he might walk through the door at any minute.
A lump formed in my throat, and I blurted out to my husband, "I can't sell Lama."
Being the understanding soul he is, he didn't even question me. "Take her out and put her back in the good pen," he said.
For you see, Lama loves Sam. Even though she doesn't get to see him much anymore, she recognized the special qualities of my soldier son, who will deploy this August to fulfill his responsibilities as a soldier-medic in Afghanistan.
In a few months, Lama and I will both be looking toward that door, hoping, waiting and longing for the day my brave, young son walks back through that door, safe home at last.
I'm glad I won't be waiting alone.
My daughter's favorite is a young doe called Brownie, and in this case, she is easily identified by her matching color. Brownie comes when you call her name, and I have many stories I could tell about that sweet little goat, but this tale isn't about Red or Brownie. It's about Lama; the goat my son, Sam made a pet of when he still lived at home and helped with chores.
Lama's name was coined from her mother's breeding. She is a cross-bred with the snow-white coat of her Swiss Saanen ancestors and the tiny ears of the American bred La Mancha breed. Hence -- La-Ma which soon became condensed to one word.
Lama is average in every way including her milk production. This year, she is producing just five pounds of milk a day, which means she needs to go down the road, out the door, farewell . . . you get the drift. We aim to keep only does giving eight pounds plus, so when we decided to thin the herd out recently, Lama was marked to be sold.
Knowing Sam had endeared himself to Lama, I called and asked him if he minded. "No, of course not," he said. "If she's not making the grade, you should sell her."
A few days later, Lama ambled through in her usual, not-in-a-particular-hurry way and jumped on the deck to be milked. I thought of the days past, when she would search out my son, and walk to him to be petted, and have her head scratched. She'd always wait on the way out too, because he'd sneak her an extra handful of grain as she left. Even though he's been gone a while now, to this day, when leaving the parlor, she still turns her head and looks, as though she hopes he might walk through the door at any minute.
A lump formed in my throat, and I blurted out to my husband, "I can't sell Lama."
Being the understanding soul he is, he didn't even question me. "Take her out and put her back in the good pen," he said.
For you see, Lama loves Sam. Even though she doesn't get to see him much anymore, she recognized the special qualities of my soldier son, who will deploy this August to fulfill his responsibilities as a soldier-medic in Afghanistan.
In a few months, Lama and I will both be looking toward that door, hoping, waiting and longing for the day my brave, young son walks back through that door, safe home at last.
I'm glad I won't be waiting alone.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
A May's Winter Day
I gaze out over dark brown fields, nestled in borders of green grass. A deep grey sky hovers above, threatening to pour out its heavy burden upon unsuspecting blossoms and newly planted gardens. We've been scampering around all day in coats and sweatshirts, wondering if an unseen wrinkle in time has stolen our summer and slipped us back into November. The weather man tells us to expect snow overnight. He's kidding, right?
Newborn foals huddle against their dams, and goat kids likewise stay closer than usual to their mothers.
A neighbor stops in to tell us that back in the 1800's, the temperatures stayed low all summer long and folks starved to death on the east coast.** That sparks my interest, and as soon as I finish covering up the tomato plants and take the axe down to break up the ice in the water tubs so the animals can drink tonight, I'm going to go look that up. Okay, so maybe I won't need the axe, well, at least not until tomorrow morning.
Please come back, spring. We miss your warm sunshine and blue skies. Stay tuned for more Rainbow Gate Farm updates very soon!
** The summer in question was 1816 -- the year without a summer in New England. It followed the Tambora volcanic eruption in 1815 and caused winter-like summers in the United States and Europe. Killing frosts were recorded on June 10th, July 9th, and August 13th.
Newborn foals huddle against their dams, and goat kids likewise stay closer than usual to their mothers.
A neighbor stops in to tell us that back in the 1800's, the temperatures stayed low all summer long and folks starved to death on the east coast.** That sparks my interest, and as soon as I finish covering up the tomato plants and take the axe down to break up the ice in the water tubs so the animals can drink tonight, I'm going to go look that up. Okay, so maybe I won't need the axe, well, at least not until tomorrow morning.
Please come back, spring. We miss your warm sunshine and blue skies. Stay tuned for more Rainbow Gate Farm updates very soon!
** The summer in question was 1816 -- the year without a summer in New England. It followed the Tambora volcanic eruption in 1815 and caused winter-like summers in the United States and Europe. Killing frosts were recorded on June 10th, July 9th, and August 13th.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Empty Trailers And Dreams
Shouldering shovels and a pitchfork, my helper, Renee and I made our way down to the empty trailer late this afternoon. My daughter's friend, Ellie tagged along to help. The mission: clean out two feet of old sawdust bedding from last spring's baby goats who called the trailer home for the first eight weeks of life.
As we shoveled and scraped and shoveled some more, I looked around the empty room. In my mind's eye I could still see last year's babies running and jumping all over the room. We unearthed a wooden box, half-buried in sawdust, and I placed it to one side, with a smile. It will be back in use this winter, for little goats to take turns playing "King of the Castle" as they fight to knock each other out of the way.
Very soon, the quiet room will be filled with the noise of the automatic milk feeder whirring in the background, as kids bleat and call out when we enter the trailer, stomping the snow and ice from our boots. Baseboard heaters on the wall keep the kid trailer at a comfortable fifty degrees which will seem very warm after the two hundred yard trek across the yard from the dairy barn.
It's a busy time when the babies start arriving. We are only expecting about two-hundred-and-fifty kids over a three month period. It sounds like a lot, but it isn't so bad. Last year, with almost three-hundred dairy goats, we delivered over seven hundred babies and some days, I thought I'd never see the house again.
For now, I will dream of those days to come; of cute baby goats and winter's wonderland, and try not to think about blizzard warnings and the twenty-below temperatures that seem to coincide with the day the does decide to start having babies!
As we shoveled and scraped and shoveled some more, I looked around the empty room. In my mind's eye I could still see last year's babies running and jumping all over the room. We unearthed a wooden box, half-buried in sawdust, and I placed it to one side, with a smile. It will be back in use this winter, for little goats to take turns playing "King of the Castle" as they fight to knock each other out of the way.
Very soon, the quiet room will be filled with the noise of the automatic milk feeder whirring in the background, as kids bleat and call out when we enter the trailer, stomping the snow and ice from our boots. Baseboard heaters on the wall keep the kid trailer at a comfortable fifty degrees which will seem very warm after the two hundred yard trek across the yard from the dairy barn.
It's a busy time when the babies start arriving. We are only expecting about two-hundred-and-fifty kids over a three month period. It sounds like a lot, but it isn't so bad. Last year, with almost three-hundred dairy goats, we delivered over seven hundred babies and some days, I thought I'd never see the house again.
For now, I will dream of those days to come; of cute baby goats and winter's wonderland, and try not to think about blizzard warnings and the twenty-below temperatures that seem to coincide with the day the does decide to start having babies!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Sophie The Ferret Flies The Coop
I stepped into the garage late last week to discover Sophie the ferret had escaped her cage once more. Her companion, Dillon came running up to greet me. "Don't worry, buddy," I said, scratching his head. "She'll be back." Usually she turns up at our back door, begging to come inside.
Three days later, there was still no sign of Sophie. With the days getting cooler, and the nights leaving light blankets of frost across the pastures, I worried she might have become dinner for some sharp-clawed owl or a stray dog.
Then, the phone call came.
"Are you missing a ferret?" our neighbor asked.
"Yes, we are," I said. "I'll be right down to get her."
Now, this neighbor doesn't live right next door. In the country, your 'neighbor' can live any distance away, and it seems Sophie had traveled way across the corn field to reach their home, at least a quarter mile's walk.
Not bad on tiny little ferret feet.
Before I could leave the house, or the computer, our neighbor's daughter sent me an instant message on Facebook telling me she'd always wanted a ferret and how cute Sophie was.
Hmmm, let's see. A ferret who wants to live inside, and traveled over a hill and across a cornfield to find a friendly house, and a teenage girl who wants a pet ferret. It didn't take me long to decide.
So, now Sophie lives at our neighbors, inside their basement with her new girl. Our other ferret, Dillon seems content to curl up in the basket with our five new kittens each night, and he never runs away. The ferret cage sits empty in the corner of the garage, and I have one less cage to keep clean. I like it!
Three days later, there was still no sign of Sophie. With the days getting cooler, and the nights leaving light blankets of frost across the pastures, I worried she might have become dinner for some sharp-clawed owl or a stray dog.
Then, the phone call came.
"Are you missing a ferret?" our neighbor asked.
"Yes, we are," I said. "I'll be right down to get her."
Now, this neighbor doesn't live right next door. In the country, your 'neighbor' can live any distance away, and it seems Sophie had traveled way across the corn field to reach their home, at least a quarter mile's walk.
Not bad on tiny little ferret feet.
Before I could leave the house, or the computer, our neighbor's daughter sent me an instant message on Facebook telling me she'd always wanted a ferret and how cute Sophie was.
Hmmm, let's see. A ferret who wants to live inside, and traveled over a hill and across a cornfield to find a friendly house, and a teenage girl who wants a pet ferret. It didn't take me long to decide.
So, now Sophie lives at our neighbors, inside their basement with her new girl. Our other ferret, Dillon seems content to curl up in the basket with our five new kittens each night, and he never runs away. The ferret cage sits empty in the corner of the garage, and I have one less cage to keep clean. I like it!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Fluffy And His Five Mothers
It's quiet around Rainbow Gate Farm right now. So, instead of boring you with the details of uneventful chores, I'm drawing on my FanStory.com archives and digging out stories I wrote earlier this year. Reminds me I'm likely to be digging myself out of snow drifts here in a few months, but meanwhile. . .
"Fluffy And His Five Mothers"
. . . Fluffy came into this world on the heels of his dead brother. Not an amazing way to start life, but he didn't care. Within minutes of being born, he struggled to his feet, and started searching for warm milk.
He soon found a soft udder and began to nurse. His mother bleated and nudged him, but Fluffy kept right on drinking . . . on Hershey, the wrong doe.
Some of our goats could care less when their kids are taken away, but others have strong maternal instincts. Taking their babies away is the least favorite part of my job description.
Those does often decide to adopt another doe's baby. I've even seen them knock the real mother out of the way as soon as the kid hits the ground, so they can take over the newborn's care.
Usually, our baby goats are raised in a heated trailer nearby, where they have access to automatic feeders providing warm milk-replacer around the clock and they quickly adopt us as their two-legged mothers. Right now, Fluffy happens to be the only one we have. The other seven hundred should be arriving any day.
I decided that rather than heating the entire trailer for just one kid, I'd let Fluffy stay with his mother, er, mothers, in the fresh goat pen.
There are five does in there who claim him as their own. Fluffy thinks life is wonderful. More milk than he could possibly drink and five warm bodies to snuggle against.
My eight-year-old daughter, Amber, christened him 'Fluffy' and although his lot should have been heading down the road to the meat market at the tender age of five months, it seems fate has intervened once more. Between Amber and his five devoted mothers, I don't have a snowball's chance in you-know-where of sending him away.
Fluffy will have to endure being castrated in a few months time. Male goats left 'entire' for breeding are one of the most terrible smelling creatures on earth.
At this rate, I may have to quit milking goats and start a sanctuary.
"Fluffy And His Five Mothers"
. . . Fluffy came into this world on the heels of his dead brother. Not an amazing way to start life, but he didn't care. Within minutes of being born, he struggled to his feet, and started searching for warm milk.
He soon found a soft udder and began to nurse. His mother bleated and nudged him, but Fluffy kept right on drinking . . . on Hershey, the wrong doe.
Some of our goats could care less when their kids are taken away, but others have strong maternal instincts. Taking their babies away is the least favorite part of my job description.
Those does often decide to adopt another doe's baby. I've even seen them knock the real mother out of the way as soon as the kid hits the ground, so they can take over the newborn's care.
Usually, our baby goats are raised in a heated trailer nearby, where they have access to automatic feeders providing warm milk-replacer around the clock and they quickly adopt us as their two-legged mothers. Right now, Fluffy happens to be the only one we have. The other seven hundred should be arriving any day.
I decided that rather than heating the entire trailer for just one kid, I'd let Fluffy stay with his mother, er, mothers, in the fresh goat pen.
There are five does in there who claim him as their own. Fluffy thinks life is wonderful. More milk than he could possibly drink and five warm bodies to snuggle against.
My eight-year-old daughter, Amber, christened him 'Fluffy' and although his lot should have been heading down the road to the meat market at the tender age of five months, it seems fate has intervened once more. Between Amber and his five devoted mothers, I don't have a snowball's chance in you-know-where of sending him away.
Fluffy will have to endure being castrated in a few months time. Male goats left 'entire' for breeding are one of the most terrible smelling creatures on earth.
At this rate, I may have to quit milking goats and start a sanctuary.
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