The kidding season for 2009 has officially started with the birth of a live buckling tonight. We had four does kid prematurely, which really worried us. After a few days of holding our breath and conferring with the vet, we were relieved to have an on-time and live birth.
I am now milking five does by hand. Only 345 left to kid or give birth!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Friday, October 31, 2008
Freak Out At Rainbow Gate Farm
The sound of barking dogs jarred against the rhythmic sound of automatic milkers and Chris Tomlin singing Jesus Messiah, just after five thirty this morning as I worked alone in our milking parlor. Peering out the open window, I squinted, trying to see past the dim light exuding from the barn into the tar pit of darkness beyond.
I'd already milked over one hundred goats so the area where they wait was half empty. To my surprise, the does were running, flowing in a mass of brown, white and black around the pen."What on earth is the matter with you?" I asked the frantic goats.
It's still dark each morning at five, when Sparky, our Australian Shepherd trots behind me to the barn to help me herd the does into the holding area where they stand beneath the twinkling stars, chewing their cud and waiting their turn to come in and be milked. I sing along to the radio without reservation and I've never had a goat complain. By the time my husband and boys appear to feed hay and water, the sun is budding over the horizon, and I'm hanging the milker units in the milk house to be washed and sanitized.
Except today, in that pre-dawn emptiness, when fear crept in to keep me company. I hollered at the dogs to hush up, and turned away from the window to change a milking unit to a different goat. At that moment, I heard a sound I will never forget. What the heck was that?In the few seconds it took my grey-matter to complete a google search, my circulatory system iced down. Or, if you prefer the old cliché, my blood ran cold. I remembered where I'd heard that sound before and I knew what it was.
A cougar's scream.I slammed the window down and shut the parlor door. That scream echoed in my ears; a screeching harmony of a cat being strangled mixed with a baby-like wail trailing off at the end. Staring through the glass, I could see the goats, now statues all facing the same direction and staring into the dark pasture beyond the barn. The dogs were no longer barking. I prayed they were still alive. Different scenarios played out in my imagination, each one of them equal to the scariest movie you can imagine. Unless the thought of being torn apart by an over sized cat doesn't bother you at all. It bothers me.
If my muse, Lydia, hadn't interrupted, I might still be standing there. She wasn't fazed, of course. There's something to be said for being a figment of a writer's imagination to make you immune to fear and taxes.
Leaning against the wall, Lydia sighed. "Just milk the goats, will you? I want to get some more work done this morning, and we do have to get to the gym."
"But I have to open the door to let more goats in. What if it attacks?"
"Jani, no self-respecting cougar is going to pass over a hundred delicious goats just to eat you. Trust me. You will see him in time to shut the door."
With visions of a yellow furred and whiskered face appearing in the window at any moment, I followed Lydia's advice. After the first group, I cracked the window just a tad, but not big enough for a cougar to crawl through. When the sun cast its first rays through the clouds, I opened the door, which is positively big enough for a cougar to stroll right through, but by this time, Lydia's confidence was rubbing off.
By seven, all the goats were milked and chores were finished. I'm thrilled to report, the goats, the dogs and I survived unscathed.
Heading inside, I jumped on the computer and typed "Cougars in Iowa" in the search box. Sure enough, after being re-introduced into our state, these majestic predators have been working their way east from the initial repopulating area in the northwest of the state.
Several reliable sightings were recorded one county over from ours, two years ago. Dusk and dawn sightings were most prevalent.
So, about tomorrow morning. Any volunteers?
I'd already milked over one hundred goats so the area where they wait was half empty. To my surprise, the does were running, flowing in a mass of brown, white and black around the pen."What on earth is the matter with you?" I asked the frantic goats.
It's still dark each morning at five, when Sparky, our Australian Shepherd trots behind me to the barn to help me herd the does into the holding area where they stand beneath the twinkling stars, chewing their cud and waiting their turn to come in and be milked. I sing along to the radio without reservation and I've never had a goat complain. By the time my husband and boys appear to feed hay and water, the sun is budding over the horizon, and I'm hanging the milker units in the milk house to be washed and sanitized.
Except today, in that pre-dawn emptiness, when fear crept in to keep me company. I hollered at the dogs to hush up, and turned away from the window to change a milking unit to a different goat. At that moment, I heard a sound I will never forget. What the heck was that?In the few seconds it took my grey-matter to complete a google search, my circulatory system iced down. Or, if you prefer the old cliché, my blood ran cold. I remembered where I'd heard that sound before and I knew what it was.
A cougar's scream.I slammed the window down and shut the parlor door. That scream echoed in my ears; a screeching harmony of a cat being strangled mixed with a baby-like wail trailing off at the end. Staring through the glass, I could see the goats, now statues all facing the same direction and staring into the dark pasture beyond the barn. The dogs were no longer barking. I prayed they were still alive. Different scenarios played out in my imagination, each one of them equal to the scariest movie you can imagine. Unless the thought of being torn apart by an over sized cat doesn't bother you at all. It bothers me.
If my muse, Lydia, hadn't interrupted, I might still be standing there. She wasn't fazed, of course. There's something to be said for being a figment of a writer's imagination to make you immune to fear and taxes.
Leaning against the wall, Lydia sighed. "Just milk the goats, will you? I want to get some more work done this morning, and we do have to get to the gym."
"But I have to open the door to let more goats in. What if it attacks?"
"Jani, no self-respecting cougar is going to pass over a hundred delicious goats just to eat you. Trust me. You will see him in time to shut the door."
With visions of a yellow furred and whiskered face appearing in the window at any moment, I followed Lydia's advice. After the first group, I cracked the window just a tad, but not big enough for a cougar to crawl through. When the sun cast its first rays through the clouds, I opened the door, which is positively big enough for a cougar to stroll right through, but by this time, Lydia's confidence was rubbing off.
By seven, all the goats were milked and chores were finished. I'm thrilled to report, the goats, the dogs and I survived unscathed.
Heading inside, I jumped on the computer and typed "Cougars in Iowa" in the search box. Sure enough, after being re-introduced into our state, these majestic predators have been working their way east from the initial repopulating area in the northwest of the state.
Several reliable sightings were recorded one county over from ours, two years ago. Dusk and dawn sightings were most prevalent.
So, about tomorrow morning. Any volunteers?
If you like reading these stories about my farm. . .
. . . please also visit my story page on my Rainbow Gate Farm website, where you will find links to a lot more of my writing.
http://rainbowgatefarm.com/JanilousCorner.html
http://rainbowgatefarm.com/JanilousCorner.html
Autumn's Wicked Lullaby
Each morning now, my old friend, Jack Frost, nips my cheeks as I step outside just before the sunrise butters the horizon. Hugging my sweatshirt, I hurry to the barn, where the goats greet me with a chorus of bleats and snorts. After filling seven buckets half-way with grain, enough for each group of twenty-one goats, I stop to feed the kittens meowing in the entryway of the parlor.
Next stop, the milk-house, to run hot water into the steel sink where the milking units lie waiting. After pouring in a dose of sanitizer, I flip the switch for the milker pump, and let it run through the pipelines and back into the sink. It needs ten minutes to kill any bacteria in the line, so I leave it running and walk outside to the holding area.
From here, the view is superb. The rolling hills are weeping leaves in the brisk wind, leaving rivers of autumn tones across the pasture. Several of our horses graze the remnants of green grass, so abundant just a few short weeks ago. If you have to shovel manure, you might as well do it with a view, and grabbing the manure scraper, I soon have the cement yard clean of mud and goat droppings.
Once that job is complete, it's time to shut the pump off and drain the sanitizing solution out of the line. I carry each milking unit out to the parlor, and plug it into the pipeline. First the tubing where the milk will flow, and then the air-hose for vacuum.
Sparky, my Australian Shepherd, waits at my feet, eyes sparkling, tongue lolling in an ever-present grin. He loves his job. "Come on, boy," I say. We enter the barn, and slide the door to the holding area open. As I open the gate, Sparky starts barking and the goats run through the door. Sparky dashes to the back of the pen, rounding up any stragglers.
When the last goat is through the door, he sits and waits, daring them to try and come back in the barn. They know better these days, and I slide the door shut without incident. Sparky looks across the barn at the goats who remain on the other side in the "Dry Pen" and whines.
"It's okay, boy," I say. "They aren't milking right now." Of our 250 adult does, half are no longer milking and are what we call "dry". They are pregnant and will be giving birth by late December. As their pregnancy progresses, their body signals a "slow down" on the milk production and they give less and less each day. When this happens, we mark these does with green ink, and milk them once a day for about a week. This gives their bodies another signal to cease making milk. Then we put them in the dry pen so they can focus on growing the new life inside of them and prepare for the next milking season.
Putting the radio on to my favorite station, Life 101.9, I let a group of goats into the parlor, and switch on the pump. It only takes an hour and all the does are milked. I carry all the milking units back into the milk-house and place them in the sink.
After washing off any mud, they are hooked back up to be washed with hot water and a special pipeline detergent. Finally a solution of milk-stone-remover and acid rinse is run through the lines and they are drained until tonight.I hose down the parlor deck where the goats stood, and head upstairs to the top of the barn where we store the sweet-smelling alfalfa hay.
After forking down two huge piles through feeding holes in the floor, I run back downstairs and spread it up and down the mangers in the dairy barn. Soon, every goat is lined up eating hay.
Then it's off to the smaller barns where over one-hundred-and-forty yearling female goats called doelings are waiting for their breakfast of hay and grain. These young does will give birth in early 2009 and join the milking herd, bumping our total number of milking does to almost four hundred next year. Most of our does will give birth to twins, with the occasional set of triplets and some singles.
Math never has been my strongest subject, but I believe this means we are expecting somewhere in the vicinity of seven or eight hundred baby goats this year, all to be born between late December, 2008 and April, 2009. Our weather man warned us this morning to expect snow flurries this Monday.
Last year, snow fell by Thanksgiving and never left until April. We keep our baby goats (kids) in two old trailer houses. They have to be cleaned out and bedded-up with fresh sawdust, which will give our three teenagers something really exciting to do this weekend.
Even though we have electric heaters and automatic feeders in the kid trailers, the biggest challenge is collecting the babies before they freeze at birth. Here in the Midwest, United States of America, our temperatures can stay below zero for weeks on end through the winter months. Add mountains of ice and regular snow storms, and I wonder once again why I ever chose to live in Iowa.
It's time to start boarding up windows and hauling the old tarp out of storage to cover up the open end of the barn. Winterizing is essential if we want livestock, not deadstock. While most does are excellent mothers and try to lick their babies dry, some plop their offspring onto the straw and walk away without so much as a backward glance.
On the coldest days, I have about five minutes to reach the soaking-wet newborns and run them back to the milk-house to be dried off and fed their mother's colostrum. If I don't get to them fast enough, their ears freeze and fall off about a week later.
It's simple enough until twenty does all decide to give birth to twins and triplets in the space of one hour. Having licked their babies dry, they walk across to someone else's kids and claim them, too. I will bring one round of babies in and go out to find fifteen more waiting for me.
The boy babies (bucklings) out of the top milk producing does and each female baby goat (doelings) are given a Velcro collar with their date of birth, future identification number and parents' names written on it with a permanent marker. The Velcro collar can be adjusted as they grow.
Once they reach eight weeks, they receive an ear tattoo with the same number.While I'm enjoying the beautiful scenery and the slow-down pace around the farm, Autumn's gentle lullaby is deceptive. Her days are mild and the scenery is superb, but we all know her husband is a foul-tempered beast and I hear his voice howling in the distance.
Let him come. We'll be ready.
Next stop, the milk-house, to run hot water into the steel sink where the milking units lie waiting. After pouring in a dose of sanitizer, I flip the switch for the milker pump, and let it run through the pipelines and back into the sink. It needs ten minutes to kill any bacteria in the line, so I leave it running and walk outside to the holding area.
From here, the view is superb. The rolling hills are weeping leaves in the brisk wind, leaving rivers of autumn tones across the pasture. Several of our horses graze the remnants of green grass, so abundant just a few short weeks ago. If you have to shovel manure, you might as well do it with a view, and grabbing the manure scraper, I soon have the cement yard clean of mud and goat droppings.
Once that job is complete, it's time to shut the pump off and drain the sanitizing solution out of the line. I carry each milking unit out to the parlor, and plug it into the pipeline. First the tubing where the milk will flow, and then the air-hose for vacuum.
Sparky, my Australian Shepherd, waits at my feet, eyes sparkling, tongue lolling in an ever-present grin. He loves his job. "Come on, boy," I say. We enter the barn, and slide the door to the holding area open. As I open the gate, Sparky starts barking and the goats run through the door. Sparky dashes to the back of the pen, rounding up any stragglers.
When the last goat is through the door, he sits and waits, daring them to try and come back in the barn. They know better these days, and I slide the door shut without incident. Sparky looks across the barn at the goats who remain on the other side in the "Dry Pen" and whines.
"It's okay, boy," I say. "They aren't milking right now." Of our 250 adult does, half are no longer milking and are what we call "dry". They are pregnant and will be giving birth by late December. As their pregnancy progresses, their body signals a "slow down" on the milk production and they give less and less each day. When this happens, we mark these does with green ink, and milk them once a day for about a week. This gives their bodies another signal to cease making milk. Then we put them in the dry pen so they can focus on growing the new life inside of them and prepare for the next milking season.
Putting the radio on to my favorite station, Life 101.9, I let a group of goats into the parlor, and switch on the pump. It only takes an hour and all the does are milked. I carry all the milking units back into the milk-house and place them in the sink.
After washing off any mud, they are hooked back up to be washed with hot water and a special pipeline detergent. Finally a solution of milk-stone-remover and acid rinse is run through the lines and they are drained until tonight.I hose down the parlor deck where the goats stood, and head upstairs to the top of the barn where we store the sweet-smelling alfalfa hay.
After forking down two huge piles through feeding holes in the floor, I run back downstairs and spread it up and down the mangers in the dairy barn. Soon, every goat is lined up eating hay.
Then it's off to the smaller barns where over one-hundred-and-forty yearling female goats called doelings are waiting for their breakfast of hay and grain. These young does will give birth in early 2009 and join the milking herd, bumping our total number of milking does to almost four hundred next year. Most of our does will give birth to twins, with the occasional set of triplets and some singles.
Math never has been my strongest subject, but I believe this means we are expecting somewhere in the vicinity of seven or eight hundred baby goats this year, all to be born between late December, 2008 and April, 2009. Our weather man warned us this morning to expect snow flurries this Monday.
Last year, snow fell by Thanksgiving and never left until April. We keep our baby goats (kids) in two old trailer houses. They have to be cleaned out and bedded-up with fresh sawdust, which will give our three teenagers something really exciting to do this weekend.
Even though we have electric heaters and automatic feeders in the kid trailers, the biggest challenge is collecting the babies before they freeze at birth. Here in the Midwest, United States of America, our temperatures can stay below zero for weeks on end through the winter months. Add mountains of ice and regular snow storms, and I wonder once again why I ever chose to live in Iowa.
It's time to start boarding up windows and hauling the old tarp out of storage to cover up the open end of the barn. Winterizing is essential if we want livestock, not deadstock. While most does are excellent mothers and try to lick their babies dry, some plop their offspring onto the straw and walk away without so much as a backward glance.
On the coldest days, I have about five minutes to reach the soaking-wet newborns and run them back to the milk-house to be dried off and fed their mother's colostrum. If I don't get to them fast enough, their ears freeze and fall off about a week later.
It's simple enough until twenty does all decide to give birth to twins and triplets in the space of one hour. Having licked their babies dry, they walk across to someone else's kids and claim them, too. I will bring one round of babies in and go out to find fifteen more waiting for me.
The boy babies (bucklings) out of the top milk producing does and each female baby goat (doelings) are given a Velcro collar with their date of birth, future identification number and parents' names written on it with a permanent marker. The Velcro collar can be adjusted as they grow.
Once they reach eight weeks, they receive an ear tattoo with the same number.While I'm enjoying the beautiful scenery and the slow-down pace around the farm, Autumn's gentle lullaby is deceptive. Her days are mild and the scenery is superb, but we all know her husband is a foul-tempered beast and I hear his voice howling in the distance.
Let him come. We'll be ready.
Friday, September 5, 2008
A Glimpse Of Heaven
I leaned against the door of the barn and looked out across the green cornfields at a clear blue sky dotted with cotton-wool clouds. It may have been the hazy day or my tired eyes, but all I
could see were tiny, shimmering circles of light cascading down from the heavens.
I watched in amazement, hoping whatever visual oddity this was, it wouldn't vanish too soon.Then I noticed while most of the light circles were coming down, some floated up into the sky. It's like watching prayers, I thought.
What if those shimmering circles are the answers to prayers being sent to God? Our prayers float up to God, and His love cascades down upon us even when we can't see it. We live in a world full of invisible, technological wonders. I accept the presence of satellite signals shooting down from the sky to a metal dish on the side of my house and don't give a moment's thought to the process while I watch my favorite television shows. I talk to my family, thousands of miles away over the ocean, on a cell-phone, and I don't need to see those conversations flowing through the sky to know they are real.
Of all generations, why does ours still need to see to believe? I'm quite thankful for my earthly sight, when it comes to dust mites, bacteria and viruses. If we could literally see everything in the air as we walked around, we might all live in glass bubbles! I think there is a good reason why God gave us limited vision.
Here on earth we see through a glass, darkly, the Bible tells us. We cannot imagine the true wonders of heaven or see the world the way God does. Sometimes we are given a glimpse of the glory of God when someone taking their last breath, opens their eyes wide and says, "Oh, it's so beautiful." I heard one of those stories last night on the radio, and it gave me goosebumps. I could almost see those angels carrying her home in their gentle embrace.
When I think of those beautiful circles of light, I am reminded of God's love for us and His presence. He is with us every moment of every day. He loves us that much. He loves you that much and He does hear your prayer, the cry from your broken heart. Be still and know. . . Emmanuel - God is with us.
Author Notes1 Corinthians 13:12 - For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
Please forgive the formatting problems on this post. For some reason it is not posting properly!
Goats For Hire
The other day on the radio, the commentator explained the difference between poor and broke. "Poor is a state of mind that will keep you there forever," he said. "Broke is a temporary situation, able to be changed if you try hard enough. It's all in your mind-set."
Okay, I'm broke. Rising fuel and livestock costs have brought us to the brink of disaster in the goat milk production business. Our does eat one large square bale of hay a day. The same bale we bought last year for $45 now costs $70 to $100. They eat four pounds of grain a day. I won't bore you with the details. Grain has tripled in price. Those of you familiar with the Rainbow Gate Farm goats know how much they care about me. The rest of you are about to find out.
Yesterday, I went to the barn. The girls were gone! Imagine my shock when I found this note nestled in the hay: Dear Jani,We know times are hard. They must be. You have cut back the amount of grain you feed us! Normally we would simply kidnap you again, or stop milking altogether. But we heard you talking to your two-legged mate about having to sell the farm. We know really bad things happen to goats who leave their farm, and besides - we've grown fond of you.
Please look outside and you will discover our new second job! That's right! We are now officially the "Roofing & Construction Does of Rainbow Gate Farm!" No job too steep. No need to take out expensive insurance. We never fall! We never fail! Love from Cinderella, Egg-Yolk, Red, and 247 other does who wish to remain anonymous.
So all my problems are solved. I plan to put up fliers everywhere, then sit back and wait for the calls to come rolling in. Of course, with their sharp hooves and tendency to nibble anything they can fit in their mouths, I might be better off renting them out as demolition workers.
Just look at those girls on top of the barn roof! It's such a relief. For a while there, I thought I might have to get a real job!
Okay, I'm broke. Rising fuel and livestock costs have brought us to the brink of disaster in the goat milk production business. Our does eat one large square bale of hay a day. The same bale we bought last year for $45 now costs $70 to $100. They eat four pounds of grain a day. I won't bore you with the details. Grain has tripled in price. Those of you familiar with the Rainbow Gate Farm goats know how much they care about me. The rest of you are about to find out.
Yesterday, I went to the barn. The girls were gone! Imagine my shock when I found this note nestled in the hay: Dear Jani,We know times are hard. They must be. You have cut back the amount of grain you feed us! Normally we would simply kidnap you again, or stop milking altogether. But we heard you talking to your two-legged mate about having to sell the farm. We know really bad things happen to goats who leave their farm, and besides - we've grown fond of you.
Please look outside and you will discover our new second job! That's right! We are now officially the "Roofing & Construction Does of Rainbow Gate Farm!" No job too steep. No need to take out expensive insurance. We never fall! We never fail! Love from Cinderella, Egg-Yolk, Red, and 247 other does who wish to remain anonymous.
So all my problems are solved. I plan to put up fliers everywhere, then sit back and wait for the calls to come rolling in. Of course, with their sharp hooves and tendency to nibble anything they can fit in their mouths, I might be better off renting them out as demolition workers.
Just look at those girls on top of the barn roof! It's such a relief. For a while there, I thought I might have to get a real job!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Bye, Bye, Barbie
We watched the buckskin foal, Blondie, frolicking in the summer breeze across the pasture, far from the safety of her mother's side. "I've never seen such a young foal stray so far from its mother," I commented to my husband.
Paul nodded. "It's the weirdest thing," he agreed.
We stood watching Blondie a little longer before heading to the barn to milk our goats. This petite filly was Barbie's third baby in the five years we'd owned her. Her first two foals, both boys, were sold when they were weaned.
We bought Barbie at a local horse sale in 2003 for our daughter to ride. Her previous owner sang her praises, but anyone familiar with horse sales knows it is "buyer beware". In this case, the seller was truthful. It wasn't long before we discovered what a dream pony Barbie really was. My daughter learned to ride on this patient equine babysitter.
Every year in the fall, children visiting the local tractor and antiques show would line up for a free ride on the "chocolate pony with the pink saddle." Barbie let children sit on her back for hours on end, and she never misbehaved. She also attended multiple birthday parties, giving town children an opportunity to ride a pony, often for the first time ever.
At a recent sale, I caught up with her original owner, and was able to tell her how much we adored the sweet pony she'd sold us. We breed and sell horses for a living and many times, people asked us to 'name our price' for Barbie.
Ponies like her are hard to find. I would smile and say, "You can't afford her. She's priceless." We displayed her photo on our Rainbow Gate Farm website, with the caption, "Barbie will never be for sale."
On Rainbow Gate Farm, foals are not handled much until after they are weaned from their mothers. We like to let them learn "horse manners" from their mother and the other horses in the herd. Mares ' breed back' (become pregnant again) sometime in the first few months after their foal is born. At six to eight months of age, we "wean" them gradually.
This transition time is usually a tough time for the foal. We bring their dams back to the foal each night for a week, and then every second day for a little longer. Then it's time for the dam to concentrate her energy on the growing foal inside her belly, and for her weaned foal to learn about people.During those first six months with their dams, it is unusual for the foal to stray far from her side. Mama is their security from predators, and their only source of affection and nutrition.
Blondie's behavior was odd for her age. The only time Blondie stayed by her mother's side was to nurse. Once satisfied, she would take off exploring once more. None of us could have imagined at the time, this unusual trait would save her life.
For the past several months, severe thunderstorms have been rolling in across the green corn fields of our county. These storms are often brief, but very intense with continuous lightning and hail. No sooner does one storm end, than another is building up on the horizon. Three months ago, we moved Barbie and her two-month-old baby girl, Blondie, to our neighbor's pasture with several other horses we own. There are several barns where the horses can seek shelter from severe weather. Barbie didn't like being outside in storms, and was usually the first one in the barn when the raindrops began to fall.
One afternoon, our neighbor called us to say a horse was dead in the pasture. We rushed up the road to discover our dear Barbie collapsed in knee-deep grass, with Blondie circling around her. Blondie touched her nose to her mother's side over and over again, unable to understand why her mother didn't get up. A quick examination revealed a large burn mark on Barbie's right cheek. Her eyes were dislocated. Lightning had struck the ground next to where she grazed, and the wet grass became the conductor for the electricity to enter her body. The way her legs were buckled underneath her told us she'd died instantly.
Blondie wouldn't let us near her. With five people helping, we were able to run her up into the barn and lasso her. Once she was caught we put a halter on her head and trailered her back to our home farm. We put her into a large stall, with hay, grain and fresh water, and she nibbled the food, giving us hope she will make the transition to solid food successfully. Two months is far too young for a foal to lose its mother's milk, but they can survive if given enough high quality substitutes. We may offer her goat's milk to help boost her calcium levels and protect those growing bones.
Within a half hour of being home, the distraught foal decided Amber and I might make pretty decent surrogate mothers after all. She started following us around and nuzzling us. We brought her out into the sunshine and let her nibble grass on the lawn. She looked around and whinnied for her mother, but of course, there was no answer.
Every time I look at Blondie, I think back to the day we stood and wondered why she didn't stay next to her mother, like normal foals. How thankful I am for her "oddness." A normal foal standing right next to her mother in the wet grass would have been killed by the lightning bolt that took her dam's life. Even in a storm, Blondie was far enough away to be saved.
Our eight-year-old daughter is naturally very upset about her pony's death. But our Barbie lives on through her sweet daughter, Blondie, who will one day take her place at the fair, giving pony rides to children who love horses as much as we do.
Oh, and by the way, don't ask, because Blondie will never be for sale.
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