So the day started out fine. Anytime you look out your window and see a new baby goat wobbling about on new legs, you’re in for a good one…(or so you’d think).
This part was great. It was likewise great that I spotted the baby before my two overly playful, still very-much-puppy Pyrs (now in their “teenage” years and weighing in at 45-50 pounds each) spotted this potential new squeak toy. (In case you didn’t know it, baby goats come with their own built in squeakers…and they’re not afraid to use them.)
Between pups who don’t know their
paws can knock you over, and an hour-old baby-goat who had yet
to figure out just what the heck happened between coming out of his safe place
to now this…well, this set the stage for the domino effect to follow.
Not often, but every now and again
you’ll have a goat mama that just doesn’t care much for motherhood. Turns out
Gabby is one such goat.
And may I
just say that, much as I try for the whole “fair and balanced” thing (and I
sincerely want to convey that this farm life is not always peaches and cream),
the more stressful the scenario, the less likely I am to pull out a camera…
which is why I write.
So Gabby
doesn’t care much for motherhood. Loudest of my lot, she only wants food, and for reasons I’m still
trying to get my head around, there are two other female goats butting the crap
out of Gabby (I suspect for spotting she’s being neglectful as a goat mama).I’ve heard
of angry birds. I’ve never seen angry goats, but these girls are downright angry, and watching
them take on Gabby, who’s a bit larger, and now, hormonal…let’s just say it
wasn’t pretty. (Talk about dysfunction. I'm thinking "Oh the therapy this kid is in for!")
As if this little stand off isn’t enough, Rosebud and
Hiccapups start eyeing this baby like a teddy bear from Goodwill. It's clear that baby goat “Charlie” can’t stay in the pen. He’s got a worthless mama and two
monster dogs gunnin’ to see what he’s made of. (And I haven’t even set the
breakfast bowls down yet.)
Given that first round of mother’s milk is everything (as it
contains the colostrum the baby needs for its immune system), next on my list
of unplanned events for this day is MILKING Gabby. (Thank God school is out.
And thank God my 12-year-old, critter-lovin’ neighbor has a heart for Gabs and baby
goats, as the next two hours are spent juggling Gabby, baby,
bottles and towels as we attempt every way we can think of to get milk into this
little guy’s mouth. Eventually, we get there, but not without a lot of coaxing…and a lot of holding Gabby by the
horns…(Not exactly a Kodak moment for motherhood.)
But with Addison now rocking the baby to sleep, and a garden there for me to hoe
my frustrations out we make a full and productive day of things, (though in the
back of my mind, I’ve yet to addressed the bigger issue of “What happens when I have to go to town?” for at some point, I must go buy goat chow as I have let my supply run out, (speaking of bad mama’s).
By evening’s cooler air, we coax Gabs and baby into the shed
where I store hay. We open its windows and leave fresh water galore. It’s a
short term fix but by no means a permanent one. But I'll address that later.
With this my first true relief of the day, I make the decision that while out, I’ll not only buy chow for my goats and
groceries for my weekend, but I’ll treat myself to a pedicure…after all, my feet look
like “h-e-double toothpicks” between all the gardening and goat chasing.
At my favorite salon I've made a new friend. She’s a sharp
little thing…about 6 years old. Katie and I became pals when, after losing her
pet betta fish some months back. Since I had one to spare, I gave her one of mine
and now little Katie and I are buds.
Now far removed from the woes of goat rearin’ I’m totally
relaxed…totally engaged in Katie’s decision to write a story about a fish that
has no name (based on a true life events.. after all, the world needs a story
written by a 6-year-old about a blue fish who was feeling blue for lack of a
name).
Paying zero attention to the time, I spot Katie’s mom closing
her register for the day. I gather my things and head out the door for the only stop that matters. While the neon “OPEN” sign is still
burning bright, officially it is 8:03. Guess what? TSC is closed! Between relaxing my feet and engaging in Katie’s story writing, I have managed to screw up the only reason I drove into town in the first place.
I spot a woman rolling carts in for the night I beg " PuhLEEEEse may I just buy one bag of chow? I have
cash. I’ll be quick!” I spy 2 other couples who have likewise
pleaded some version of the same, likewise to no avail.
When a third car pulls up, I'm thinking surely there’ll be power
in numbers, but no no; nay nay.
In a state of overwhelming guilt I’m weighing: "Life cereal or
Triscuits?"…all the while thinking Gab’s is not the only mother that sucks around
here… I'm just this side of tears when the last of the would be customers
rolls down his car window and asks, “Hey. Didn’t I just see you in a magazine?
Aren't you that lady who raises goats?”
Honestly? It had the timing of a Woody Allen movie.
I shake my head in disbelief…and reply...“Goes to show you can’t believe
everything you read. You’d think a person raising goats would know when TSC
closes!”
With that I drove across the street to Petco, where (thanks
to a rather knowledgeable kid) I purchase 4 bags of guinea pig formula to get
us through the night.
Dinner was served at 9:37 pm., ending the
world’s longest goat day ever, after which I went promptly to bed.
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