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!
Monday, November 30, 2009
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.
Monday, November 2, 2009
A Never-Ending Cycle
This is an old story from April of this year. It still makes me laugh, which I really need right now, considering we have just switched to once-a-day milking, because the 'girls' are drying up, in preparation for the soon-to-begin kidding season.
"A Never-Ending Cycle"
(originally posted on FanStory.com in April 2009)
Anyone who is familiar with my life story by now knows I milk dairy goats for a living. At times it seems to be all I ever do, taking four hours twice a day just to milk from start to finish. Then there are babies to feed, weaned babies and dry goats (goats who haven't given birth yet) to feed hay, grain and water, goats to bed up with dry cornstalks, new babies to bring in and vaccinate -- it's a never ending cycle.
Last night, still recovering from a flu bug going around this area, my feet were dragging. My son, Sam, started milking but he had to leave to go to his girlfriend's high school play. My other son, Joel, was also in the play, and my husband, Paul, left on a service call for his electrical business.
By the time Paul got home, I'd been milking alone for almost three hours. He told me later he was surprised how many goats were left in the holding pen waiting to be milked, but thought it was understandable considering I'd been feeling under the weather.
We milked a little longer, and noticed some of the goats had very little milk. We were both concerned. There is a virus that can run through a herd, causing almost instant fall in production and our neighbor told us his herd was having problems.
"We'd better call 'Connell' (our vet)," Paul said.
"I agree," I said. "This doe here has hardly any milk at all."
Several hours later, I went and chased the last group into the parlor. As my husband finished up, I went into the barn to fill the water tubs by the far edge of the holding pen. To my surprise, the holding area was full of goats!
It was then I saw it. The gate that separates the goats who are already milked from the ones waiting to be milked was not properly chained shut, leaving an eight-inch gap, just big enough for goats to leave the milking parlor, walk back around the corner, and squeeze back into the holding area.
Yes, we'd been milking the same goats twice. For two extra hours. They love coming into the parlor to get the grain we feed while they are standing to be milked, so they were having a wonderful time!
And I sometimes wonder why I never get anything else done.
"A Never-Ending Cycle"
(originally posted on FanStory.com in April 2009)
Anyone who is familiar with my life story by now knows I milk dairy goats for a living. At times it seems to be all I ever do, taking four hours twice a day just to milk from start to finish. Then there are babies to feed, weaned babies and dry goats (goats who haven't given birth yet) to feed hay, grain and water, goats to bed up with dry cornstalks, new babies to bring in and vaccinate -- it's a never ending cycle.
Last night, still recovering from a flu bug going around this area, my feet were dragging. My son, Sam, started milking but he had to leave to go to his girlfriend's high school play. My other son, Joel, was also in the play, and my husband, Paul, left on a service call for his electrical business.
By the time Paul got home, I'd been milking alone for almost three hours. He told me later he was surprised how many goats were left in the holding pen waiting to be milked, but thought it was understandable considering I'd been feeling under the weather.
We milked a little longer, and noticed some of the goats had very little milk. We were both concerned. There is a virus that can run through a herd, causing almost instant fall in production and our neighbor told us his herd was having problems.
"We'd better call 'Connell' (our vet)," Paul said.
"I agree," I said. "This doe here has hardly any milk at all."
Several hours later, I went and chased the last group into the parlor. As my husband finished up, I went into the barn to fill the water tubs by the far edge of the holding pen. To my surprise, the holding area was full of goats!
It was then I saw it. The gate that separates the goats who are already milked from the ones waiting to be milked was not properly chained shut, leaving an eight-inch gap, just big enough for goats to leave the milking parlor, walk back around the corner, and squeeze back into the holding area.
Yes, we'd been milking the same goats twice. For two extra hours. They love coming into the parlor to get the grain we feed while they are standing to be milked, so they were having a wonderful time!
And I sometimes wonder why I never get anything else done.
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