Woo Hoo! It's warmed up enough that it can actually snow! Today's high was somewhere in the 25 degree F range and it started snowing those soft, white flakes a few hours ago. Sure beats that twenty below zero weather we were having a few days ago.
The goat kids keep on coming. A set of triplets born late last night, then a set of twins and a single so far today. All bucklings (boys) except one of the triplets, who is a doeling (girl).
It's exhausting, but rewarding. We have about twenty goats milking now, but still have 330 does to kid!
Woo Hoo!
Jan
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Baby Goats At Last!
Today, of all days, with the temperature at the near-record twenty-five below zero, our goats decided to start kidding in earnest. Thank heavens only three sets of babies were born. Two sets of triplets and one set of twins.
Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!
Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Peggy's Story
Having almost four hundred head of livestock, means accidents are going to happen. Several months ago, a yearling goat decided to try her skills at gate-jumping. She failed the class, getting her front leg caught in the top panel of the wire gate and snapping it in half. We found her hanging upside down in the gate.
In livestock, if the break is a 'simple' fracture (no bone protruding through the skin) we can have our local vet cast the broken limb, and our success rate with these fractures has been 100%.
When the broken bone has pierced the skin, the prognosis is very poor. Even if you spend the hundreds of dollars to have the bone pieced back together and pinned, infection takes over, and the animal dies.
It might seem harsh, but a farmer has to take into account the market value of each animal on the farm. A yearling doeling like Peggy is worth approximately $200. It made no sense to spend hundreds of dollars over her value, with such a poor prognosis.
Two options remained. Euthanize her or splint the leg, and see what happened.
We decided on the latter. It's not as easy a choice as one might think. For weeks, we watched Peggy hobble around. The pain affected her appetite and she lost weight, despite our extra efforts to supplement her feed. Last week, I noticed her touching her hoof to the ground. This was encouraging and I hoped it meant the leg was healing. She started eating more again.
To my shock, several days later, I noticed the splinted leg hanging from just below the knee, by one tendon. Peggy had knocked the bandage away. Her leg was falling off.
I climbed into the pen, and removed the dangling leg. The stump did not bleed, and was not infected. I sprayed some antiseptic on the stump end, and brought Peggy up to a pen right next to our milk house where we keep the does who have already freshened (given birth) She seemed relieved to be rid of her dead leg, and began to frolic around.
Peggy's loss of a leg might seem like a tragedy, but in reality, it's a blessing in disguise. Peggy is a cross between an Oberhasli and a Saanen. Although Saanens are bigger, she inherited her Oberhasli mother's small frame, and smaller does don't tend to produce enough milk to make the grade.
This first year, when she freshened, she would have been evaluated for her production level, and culled out of the herd if she didn't produce five pounds or more of milk. Five pounds is the minimum production we accept from any doe, because otherwise, they are not paying for their upkeep.
Culled does are sent to the sale barn, where buyers purchase them for the various ethnic markets who enjoy goat meat.
This will not be Peggy's fate. We seem to have a soft spot for cripples around this place. Peggy will join our other three-legged goat, Gimpy, as a permanent mascot of Rainbow Gate Farm. No matter how little milk she produces, she will grow up, live and die right here on our farm. With the constant attention and extra grain, she is becoming very friendly and looking good. Peggy is one terrific goat!
I'm teaching Peggy how to use a computer now, so I'm certain she'll be back to share more of her life stories with you on Rainbow Gate Farm.
In livestock, if the break is a 'simple' fracture (no bone protruding through the skin) we can have our local vet cast the broken limb, and our success rate with these fractures has been 100%.
When the broken bone has pierced the skin, the prognosis is very poor. Even if you spend the hundreds of dollars to have the bone pieced back together and pinned, infection takes over, and the animal dies.
It might seem harsh, but a farmer has to take into account the market value of each animal on the farm. A yearling doeling like Peggy is worth approximately $200. It made no sense to spend hundreds of dollars over her value, with such a poor prognosis.
Two options remained. Euthanize her or splint the leg, and see what happened.
We decided on the latter. It's not as easy a choice as one might think. For weeks, we watched Peggy hobble around. The pain affected her appetite and she lost weight, despite our extra efforts to supplement her feed. Last week, I noticed her touching her hoof to the ground. This was encouraging and I hoped it meant the leg was healing. She started eating more again.
To my shock, several days later, I noticed the splinted leg hanging from just below the knee, by one tendon. Peggy had knocked the bandage away. Her leg was falling off.
I climbed into the pen, and removed the dangling leg. The stump did not bleed, and was not infected. I sprayed some antiseptic on the stump end, and brought Peggy up to a pen right next to our milk house where we keep the does who have already freshened (given birth) She seemed relieved to be rid of her dead leg, and began to frolic around.
Peggy's loss of a leg might seem like a tragedy, but in reality, it's a blessing in disguise. Peggy is a cross between an Oberhasli and a Saanen. Although Saanens are bigger, she inherited her Oberhasli mother's small frame, and smaller does don't tend to produce enough milk to make the grade.
This first year, when she freshened, she would have been evaluated for her production level, and culled out of the herd if she didn't produce five pounds or more of milk. Five pounds is the minimum production we accept from any doe, because otherwise, they are not paying for their upkeep.
Culled does are sent to the sale barn, where buyers purchase them for the various ethnic markets who enjoy goat meat.
This will not be Peggy's fate. We seem to have a soft spot for cripples around this place. Peggy will join our other three-legged goat, Gimpy, as a permanent mascot of Rainbow Gate Farm. No matter how little milk she produces, she will grow up, live and die right here on our farm. With the constant attention and extra grain, she is becoming very friendly and looking good. Peggy is one terrific goat!
I'm teaching Peggy how to use a computer now, so I'm certain she'll be back to share more of her life stories with you on Rainbow Gate Farm.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Let The Birthing Begin!
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!
I am now milking five does by hand. Only 345 left to kid or give birth!
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.
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