A Day in the Life . . .

   

It all begins like this...

    Weekend or weekday, it matters not when you live on a farm. Critters gotta eat; chores don't wait and new projects mean you grab your meetings when you can nab the person you need for the project de jure, which today meant starting my day romping around all over the place with fence-builder, Danny.
     Helps to know your wire from your mesh, your non-climb from your woven when it comes to goats as these little critters love nothing more than rubbing on fences to scratch the places they can't reach with their built-in back scratchers, (otherwise known as horns).
     And why do we need more fencing when we have such a wonderful fence already? Because soon and very soon we have to get Heffner away from his daughters. (Insert Tennessee redneck joke here.) What's more, even my baby boys must be tended to, as they can start breeding as early as 8 weeks. (There's a reason for that expression about goats, and no, it has nothing to do with the horns on his head. These are one of the breeding'est animals on God's green earth~ When visiting a goat farm it helps to have explained the facts of life to your child in advance as watching goats "ride piggyback" is something I'll leave for you to explain in your car ride home.)

Little Miss Abby and Shannon Goat!

     For the record Pygmies range anywhere between 45 - 80 pounds full grown and given my girls lean toward the lighter end of that spectrum, we are now in search of a smaller buck for the generation just born. (Sorry Heff, but there'll always be Blackie, Cupid, Donner and Elsie... Just need to keep you away from the rest, you stinky little buck!)
     Having laid out plans for interior fencing (for buck separating purposes), electric fencing (for garden-prep purposes) and an entirely separate fenced off back lot (for a different breed of goat--stay tuned!), we'll soon be on our way with expansion plans for "GoatsRUs!" (Meaning get ready FFA'ers;  the internship program is in the works!)
     The rest of the day was spent snapping pics for a project we're soon to announce~ (With faces like the, we just can't resist, so we called in the troops and made a day of things...It was all Pygmies...all  Pyrs...all day long!)
     Life doesn't get much better than this.

Rosey 1: Coyotes 0

   

     There are barks and there are barks...and then there are the growls. Each sound sends a message and when it comes to Pyrs (as with any breed you live with long enough) you start to recognize the differences if you listen close enough. Even when they wake you, there's comfort in hearing the sounds a dog makes, especially those hired to keep an eye out for things.
     But let a thing get a lit-tle too close...All bets are off. Intruder Beware!
     Such was the case of Wiley Coyote (may he RIP). I'm sure he was somebody's papa, but on Rosey's turf, Rosey rules. Next time, dude, you might wanna do your prowling elsewhere.
     Graciously she spared me the gory details; my only clue that something was up when I couldn't get Rosey out of the garden a night ago. My first thought went to deer. It is not uncommon this time of year to see deer parts in your yard (gross as they are to find). Some deer fall wounded (more common with bow hunters). Some remains are left behind from cleaning, (leaving guts behind for buzzards is not uncommon in the country...Deer guts, btw, are called "umbles" It's where we get the phrase "Umble Pie" (often mistaken for "Humble Pie" though the phrase origin has to do with deer intestines made into pies for serfs and servants, so as to make use of every possible piece of a slaughtered deer, i.e. the "chitlins" of a deer....Little "I Didn't Know That" moment for you).
     All a part of nature. All a part of life in the country. (Insert your Lion King/Disney tune here.)
     But in the unsolved mystery of "What the heck is Rosey eating?" from a night ago, it was an Agatha Christy moment when by the light of day I made my way cautiously, delicately out to where she was once again, hunkered down over her prey, growling her guttural victory growl, uncertain if I was there to scold or remove or both. (Trust me. I'm not THAT stupid.)
     Definitely not a scolding moment. No, no. Nay, nay. This was a "GOOD DOG ROSEY! GOOD GRRRRRRL!" kinda moment, for Rosey had done what God put Pyrenees on the planet to do: Rosey had killed herself a coyote!
     Let the record reflect (having raised Huskies and wolf breeds in a prior life) I probably would've cried had I witnessed this first hand, after all, this creature must surely have a family of its own given the eerie-baby cries we've been hearing recently...(For those who've never heard this, there is no sound in the world like a bunch of coyote pups howling at the moon...One of the most unique, albeit, spine-tingling noises you'll ever hear.) Why I'm sure Wiley was just shopping for groceries like the rest of us, but (sorry dude) my goats are not your Butterball!
     Thankfully Rosey (and God) spared me the worst of it. By the time I found what was left of the dude, Rosey was paws to pelt, crunching on his head giving me this: "Let me just polish this off" kinda glance.
     Meanwhile, back in the pen were three super impressed (though slightly jealous) relatives and 16 very relieved goats (perched high atop their spools)!