The Cost of Caring: When Innocent Creatures Suffer

   

     Goats are God's definition of joy in a critter body. Minutes after they are born, they are up on their little goat feet and within their first hour they're doing that happy little sideways dance that makes for endless Facebook posts and darling YouTube videos. In a nutshell, goats embody love. You can't look a goat in the face without smiling...(I double dog dare you.)
     As lively and fun as the little buggers are, your heart breaks when one goes limp, which is how I found April last night.
Last check of the night and all was not well. Things you don't want to see include lifeless eyes, a goat flat on its side (or back, even worse) or a worried mama goat, trying to nurture her baby back to health. The other goats instinctively gave distance. Like all nature, they know when something is wrong.
     Born to the smallest goat in my herd, April's mama was a surviving twin, born TO a twin on the coldest night of the year before...(That polar arctic thing was dangerous all the way around, and doubly hard on a mama giving birth as it's hard to keep one baby alive, much less two, when birth fluids freeze instantly, which is what happened to April's twin brother before I could get to him; talk about a sad night.)
     Anna Karinina, April's mama, was one of several given Russian names, as they arrived opening week of the Russian Olympics.  Anna (AK as we call her) was tiny. So tiny I decided to have her fixed, as Heff, twice her size and twice as determined, was no match for her. Sadly, I got her to the vet too late; she was 3 months pregnant (gestation on goats is 5). A baby taking on Heff's gene for size could've been deadly. Fortunately, AK inherited her mother's gene for size and color and came out fine. (We've have lived with the tragedy before when the first goats I purchased were bred by a brush (goat) billy...For the record, NEVER pair a pygmy with a standard size goat; 2 mamas of my initial herd had tragic births with babies' legs longer their mothers, making for emergency surgeries costing life and limb.
       Pygmies are tiny on a good day; April was teacup size at birth, and even today is more akin to a Nigerian Dwarf than a Pygmy. Fully grown, today she is now smaller than Cupid's recent twins (Jack and Jill, born 6 weeks ago. Given her mother's small stature, April inherited small genes (and fortunately, not Heff's), but her immune system was challenged from the get-go.
     For those unfamiliar, wattles (those little nodes that dangle from the neck of some (but not all) goats) are sometimes called neck-earrings. Best I can tell, they serve no useful purpose...They're just cute...again, not all goats have them, but April does.
   

     Around 2 months of age, beneath her left waddle a cyst had formed, the size of a small marble. Fortunately it did not have the texture of a marble (i.e. it was not hard, but rather fluid-filled, which was easily enough drained, only it came back....It was drained again, but it is now forming for a third time, leading us to believe it may not be benign.) Time will tell. Right now, the focus is managing the dehydration factor. (I'll spare you the vivid details here, or you may check my earlier blogs on the poop factor, i.e. quickest way to spot a problem in farm animals, and for goats, even more so, given they have 4 stomachs...Suffice it to say, if their poop is off, their system's off. It's the number one tell-tale sign of a problem, leading me to believe that clearly God has a great sense of humor.)
     I'll spare you the details save to say, April made it through the night. (Good sign.) This morning, she ate. (Another good sign.) The others butted her, leaving her flat on her back (Bad sign...Suggests they know she's weak and are counting her gone, but I was there...and will be watching over her like a hawk until the doctor arrives.)
     While yes, this goes with the territory, it's not the part of the territory I like. It's a part of life-- just not the fun part, but it is the cost of caring so deeply.  To avoid the pain of hurting over an innocent critter would mean avoiding animals all together and that's a price I do not wish to pay.
     That said, I DO so marvel at the kind wishes, the thoughtful comments...the prayers I KNOW were prayed. (I felt them.) The tender hearted replies from so many caring people --fellow animal lovers, friends...even total strangers -- warmed my heart and brought great comfort at a time I was otherwise feeling lost and helpless.
     There is something about watching innocence suffer that both bonds us and reminds us of how very fragile life is, (and how very helpless we are at times to do anything BUT pray).  Yet for all the pain felt while watching it, there is a sweet peace that comes with knowing others care. And for this, I am truly...TRULY grateful.
     I'll keep you posted.
     My heartfelt thanks for your precious tender hearts.
     For now, it's an April kinda day.

Learning Curves (Feral Cat Meets Her Pyr)

    I recall every detail of Rosey's first (and only) litter of pups. Because it happened smack dab in the middle of the 2013 arctic blast, we (like a mother arguing with her teenage daughter) "debated" where the pups should be born. Me? I thought they should wind up under the dining room table for their first days so I could keep a close eye on them. Part of that was selfish I admit, but part of that was cautionary: given the size of both mama and litter, it is advised to keep an eye on the count as it is not uncommon for a mama Pyr to accidentally smother one in her sleep. Determined NOT to let that happen, I made one heck of a refrigerator box-puppy crib, but Rosey, being Rosey, said "Screw that" and commenced to having her puppies in the great outdoors in her favorite spot under the deck. (Only Rosey wasn't watching the weather channel, nor did she understand just how cold that "Polar Arctic Blast" could be.)
     At 32 degrees and falling when it started, Rosey hunkered down in her pick of places as I pulled out extension cords, blowers, heat bulbs, blankets and towels, and in my thermal romper and earmuffs spent the next 8 hours crouched along side her making sure every puppy got dried as quickly as possible. (Breaking water and freezing temps can make for instant pup-cicles if you're not careful.) By evening, with the help of neighbors and friends, we managed (in the 2 seconds Rosey got up to pee) to shift the puppies indoors; 2 days later, we shifted them to a make-shift nursery in the basement where they stayed for the next 8 weeks of their precious puppy lives.
     By week six, my farmer friend Thurman was chiding: "You're gonna spoil them dogs; they won't be worth a plug nickel if you don't get 'em out there with the goats. These dogs need to be getting used to the things they're gonna protect." Thurman is right about this, but of course, being Rosey's dogs they were extra smart pups to start with. Today I'm happy to report that no one got damaged by me keeping them indoors an extra couple of weeks. Today, 2 of the pups guard alpacas; 2 live on a horse farm in upstate New York; 1 guards a rescue shelter including dogs, cats and a goose with a broken leg and Rosebud and Hix, of course, do a masterful job keeping watch over our goats here along with their big-headed uncle, TJ.
     But an interesting thing happened throughout this ordeal.  Rosey, whose first year of life was spent with goats, patrols their parameter, but given all the time and energy spent indoors, her true guard is now more the house and everything residing therein and around, which means she now has new protectorates to consider.
     I'm proud to say, Rosey (the most self-actualized dog I have ever known) takes to these things quite well. She was unphased when Lilly, a rescue we fostered, shared her space for 2 weeks. Throughout Layla's ordeal, Rosey was sympathetic and mothering, lying next to the wounded pup as she healed from her surgery, sharing space, food, treats and (biggest share of all) her mama. (i.e. Rosey was not at all jealous, which as any dog lover knows, is always a risk.) And for the week we enjoyed the company of two 10-week old pups TJ sired, well, Rosey actually tried to nurse them despite the fact that she had been out of milk for 6 whole months.
     But now we have new critters. Our (so called) feral cats are now venturing forth, discovering new turf, appearing on porch decks....climbing big trees. It was bound to happen. One by one they must encounter Rosey, who basically needs to sniff 'em out and get used to the fact that they are here to stay.
     [Author's Note: when it comes to smaller critters like chickens or kittens, it IS best to raise a Pyr as a pup alongside the animals you wish them to protect, as their instinctive wiring is for goats, sheep and larger things. Rosebud's rambunctious reaction gave pause (paws) for concern a few weeks ago, but fortunately today she's back on her old turf and a bit preoccupied. Furthermore, if these cats have any remaining feral in them at all, which they do, I truly do not worry, after all God gave 'em tree-climbing gear for a reason, and that stuff works great for swatting big dog noses in addition to everything else.]
     As for Rosey, who was taught by Boo how to properly respect a cat...we're feeling good about things, despite this one scary moment when brave little Gracie met great big Rosey for the first time!

Up Next: Woodburning 101

   

Ahh...Nothing like the sound of chainsaws and
barking dogs to start your day . . .

     For the past 2 years (ever since the polar/artic blast) I have been contemplating a shift from propane heat to wood-burning alternatives. Let me tell you why.
     1) I have more access to wood than I do propane. (Actually, I love my propane people; but I don't love when the stuff gets rationed, which happened 2 years ago, which sent me on a search for alternative heat sources, lest it happen again.)
     2) I live in a rather drafty home. No. Let me restate that. I live in a VERY drafty home, what's more, the flow patterns for heat and air are funky, because it's a renovated church, meaning gaps in the windows leak air, settled floors leak air...Trust me. It's drafty, and a fortune to heat in the winter months.
     3) With every sustainable, alternative option I exercise, I feel a bit better about my life. Don't ask me why. I would not call myself a prepper. But it is increasingly my experience that the more I can simplify...the more I can entertain a "sustainable" alternative, the more I have to give to the things I love and the causes I care about. This alone makes the sustainable journey a fascinating one. (Plus, I love to learn, so there's that too.)

     The learning curve is now on overdrive, as I have now begun the search for wood-burning alternatives, only to find "There are many." What's more, everyone's situation is unique so what I share on my journey here may NOT be ideal for you. (I'm learning there are a lot of specific things to look into. I had no idea just how many variations there are on what clearly goes back to the dawn of time, which is humanoids warming their bodies by way of fire.)

     For starters, the tree in the photo had died (which makes me very sad, as it was a beautiful oak, but it got overtaken by poison oak, making it susceptible to a fungus, so there was that as well). For the past 2 years I have watched its slow decline, which was sad enough. But now, it serves to remind that everything has new life in it if you shift your perspective, so I reached out to my country-bumpkin pals who know how to do these things and now we have....firewood! (Nothing to inspire the search for wood-burning options like a wall of firewood, now neatly stacked and waiting for winter.)

     For reasons I do not know (I must've heard an ad) I had my sites set on an outdoor, wood-burning furnace. I had researched the components. Gone to visit a few. But when it got down to it, and I was told the thing had to be 25 feet away from my house AND any trees (I have a lot of trees), this began to look like the way I would NOT want to start a winter's day. So my search reverted to "indoor" units.
     For those who've not gone through this journey...welcome to mine. Indoor units are as varied as the individuals who seek them out, but the first order of business is "furnace or stove" (there is a difference. If you're like me and have been using the terms interchangeably, well...get ready to change.)
     Stoves--come in a vast range of adorable assortments, from cast iron square things to pot-bellied cute things. The sit in the middle of your home and they heat the area they are situated in to high heavens and if you opt for blowers and such, can be directional. (So far I'm thinking this is not ideal for me, but they are awfully cute.)
     Furnaces--can tie into your central heat and air options (if you are, like most people, living with such modern day conveniences) and can be routed to your duct-work, meaning you have an alternative (even if you choose to stick with propane when it's not being rationed). In other words, there are full blown furnaces for first time home-buyers who want to really start rugged...and there are component furnaces..."add ons" as some call them...that allow you the option of heating with wood or whatever else you had in mind. For me, (as of this writing) this is looking to be best.

     For those who have made this decision already, I welcome your thoughts and feedback. For those living with decisions they wish now they had not made, I welcome your insights as well, as I plan to document throughout this journey for the sake of others contemplating the same.

     Should be an interesting winter...I'm big on planning ahead. Stay tuned.

On Your Mark, Get Set... GOats!

     As the garden comes to a dwindle, (only sweet potatoes and a few pepper plants remain), our thoughts turn to fall and other projects in the wings...(and when I say wings, I mean that literally).
     Topping this list is equipping the barn and goat areas with cameras, after all, who doesn't love seeing goats jumping on things? If the internet is any indication, the world just can't get enough cute goats, be they jumping on spools or romping through garages wearing pajamas.
     With this in mind, I have decided mine should do their duty to upping the happiness factor everywhere, so get ready as we prep the site with Goat Cams and Go(at) Pros!

     (Note: we are not so certain Goat Drones will make the cut, however, as these are noisy little buggers, and first attempts to shoot drone footage found my goats hovering under a tree and my dogs barking at the sky. Clearly from their perspective, the drone strongly resembled a buzzard, and. . . well...we all know how that turned out.)

We're Changing Her Name to Houdini

     Under the subtitle: Milking It For All It's Worth, my darling Rosebud has become the world's greatest escape artist. While we repair the gate she tore down, and replace the leash she managed to snap in two, I offer you a glimpse of my latest attempts to keep her from making Boo's life a miserable hell. (Until yesterday, she did not grasp how spiral staircases worked. Suffice it to say, today, she figured this out.)

     To the center is Rosey who is thinking "I liked it better when it was just us, Mom" (to which I say, "Yes, Rosey, me too. Vacuuming three times a day was not exactly how I wanted to spend my fall.")
     Fortunately, we only have six more weeks to go until Rosebud will be preoccupied...
     So hang in there Rosey-Posey~ (I, like you, wish those puppies would get here already~ Something needs to calm this girl down!)

Fleas, Dogs and Collars: Part 3

   

     Though it was three months ago, the last days of Minsky's life I remember like yesterday. Painful goodbyes have a way of etching themselves deeply in both heart and cells and when it's your co-pilot, your baby, your best friend of 15 1/2 years...well, some things take longer to heal, and the mental reliving of the ordeal is not something I've been eager to embrace.
     That said, I choose to share her story here in the off chance it might somehow help someone else (and especially now that I have watched another baby of mine suffer from the toxins in a flea-killing ointment).
     I begin with this disclaimer: these are my observations. I did not have Minsky autopsied, though a flurry of google searches has shown me that I am not alone for having concerns.
     The product: Seresto Flea and Tick collar by Bayer.
     The tragedy: my beloved Minsky.
     The background is this:
     I first heard of Seresto collars a year and a half ago. With four huge outside dogs (one going back and forth daily), fleas go with the territory. But when I overheard a groomer swear by this collar, I immediately set out to find not one, but four, as the fur /hair combination of the Pyrenees breed, can make for a matted mess if you don't stay on top of these things.
     And I must say, I was totally impressed. The good news: they last for 8 months, so there's no monthly mess of drops and dips that do not cut it for dogs of this size romping in the great outdoors. The bad news: they're expensive as heck, and (little did I know at the time) they are controversial, and can even be deadly.
     Let the record reflect, my big dogs love their collars, as Rosebud, here will attest: (Note: this is the day she got her new one:http://karlensgarden.blogspot.com/2015/05/blog-post_4.html ... Not sure if they grasp the flea repelling concept or if they simply like feeling as if they belong, but as you can from their glee, it's a big day when we break out the new collars. I had to make special adjustments to get one to fit TJ as his head is so big, but with a little ingenuity, we managed.)

Hix and Rosebud

     This year, I did myself one better. Because these things are so costly, I went online to look for specials. ($70 at the vet; $50 online--It pays to shop around.) Given their success the year before, I decided this year to buy a small one for Minks as well (who weighed 18 lbs; they also make them for cats; though I did not purchase one for Boo.)
     One week prior to Minsky's passing I had taken her to the vet to check out a horrendous hacking cough that had worsened over the past few weeks. $125 worth of x-rays later and I was told her trachea was collapsing, which I attributed to the many meds that had extended her life thus far, (steroids and pain pills being amongst them). Per this examination, the doctors upped her steroids. We knew we were on borrowed time, and I in no way blame the collar entirely. But I am convinced it contributed. And here's why...
     Minka's last day on earth was pure hell for us both. Her cough had worsened and the increase in meds had her throwing up repeatedly, (roughly every 7 minutes at the end). After 22 rounds in 3 hours, I made the call every pet owner dreads, for there was nothing left in her to throw up anymore...Her little body was giving out.
     Keep in mind (for those who follow these things) I had an extra dog on my hands during this ordeal: Layla-- recovering from leg surgery, was back and forth from outside to in, as was Rosey. Given we were in peak flea season, and given Minka's expensive collar was fairly new, I popped in on Boo as a preventive measure. (For the record, Boo weighs 15 pounds...3 pounds less than Minka, but with twice the hair. Per the packaging, ingredients in the small dog collar were identical to that for grown cats, not that it mattered. We didn't get that far.)
     No sooner had I placed the collar on Boo, did I numbly begin going about my day, picking up Minka's bowl, her toys, her bedding...Then suddenly, I heard that God-forsaken sound, now forever etched in my memory--the sound I had heard incessantly over the past week from Minka...The sound I heard throughout her last hours, every seven minutes...There was no denying this sound.  Only this time, it was coming from Boo!  Boo had not had the collar on for one hour when he launched into the identical hacking sound of an irritated trachea.

     In an instant, I grabbed him and snapped the collar off. He ran for water. I ran for my laptop whereupon googling, I found a series of complaints about these collars, particularly on smaller animals. Symptoms ranged from hacking coughs to seizures, to yes, even deaths. Oddly enough, there's very little gray area here. People either love these collars or they hate them. (When you put this kind of money in a collar, I guess you're gonna have strong opinions.)
     As for me, I still keep them on the big dogs. Then again, Pyrs have an undercoat of fur beneath their top coat of hair --2 layers of protection between collar and neck, as opposed to Minka, whose summer cut left precious little fur around her precious little neck. (Boo's fur would've been more akin to the Pyrs by way of thickness, but it mattered not. The sound alone was enough for me. I cringed to hear the familiar hack. So for Boo, it's flea combs and herbal formulas from now on.)

     Again, I reiterate, Minks had several problems in her latter days. I in no way blame the collar entirely. But I am convinced it contributed. And I am sufficiently convinced it has done harm to other smaller breeds of dog, so if you're considering one, please do your homework.

     Meanwhile, I share Minka's memory once again...May her little life serve as a reminder to us all to cherish every moment of every day...Not a day goes by that I don't think of her with love and gratitude for the time we had. Here's to you Minka girl...I'm praying there are no fleas in heaven.

http://karlensgarden.blogspot.com/2015/06/love-of-all-time.html

   
   

Fleas: Part 2 -- Sammy

   

L-R: Hissy Missy (my Tortie'),  Sammy (Siamese) and Gracie (Gray and White)

     As anyone reading this blog is aware, I recently acquired 3 new family members about six weeks back: my feral cats. I'm going to use the term only once in this post, as it's become the running joke between the friend who delivered them to me that my cats are broken as there is nothing feral about them.(We can thank his girlfriend for holding them while little and blame me for thinking for 2 seconds I was gonna have a critter around these parts that I didn't at least try to tame.)

     In case you haven't met them, their names are Gracie (gray and white), Sammy (Siamese) and Hissy Missy (a brindle colored cat, also known as a "tortie"-- personality for which is unmistakeable.)

(i.e. In addition to their distinctive coloring, torties also have a reputation for unique personalities, sometimes referred to as “tortitude.”  They tend to be strong-willed, a bit hot-tempered, and they can be very possessive of their human.  Other words used to describe torties are fiercely independent, feisty and unpredictable.  They’re usually very talkative and make their presence and needs known with anything from a hiss to a meow to a strong purr. Author's Note: Hissy Missy has these traits in spades. I've never seen a cat hiss and purr simultaneously, but she does, which netted her her name...)

     But today's story is about Sammy...

     Given the fruit basket turnover of alpha energies and hormones (i.e. Rosebud's in her last week of a three week heat cycle...Thank GOD!) life around here has been more topsy turvy than usual. (i.e. Rosebud, though safe from being bred by a family member, has acclimated quite nicely to air conditioning and as a result, has learned (when put in the pen) how to jump out, so she's been in the house with Rosey and me for the past week. As a result, Boo has retreated upstairs, totally confused as to where this Rosey-clone came from; the new kitties (who have not met Boo, as their jobs were SUPPOSED to be keeping mice at bay) have been in the basement, where they are allowed access to the great outdoors in the day. (Although given the jungle gym of stored furnishings and ductwork, they are blissfully content to play indoors where it's cool.) But because they can go back and forth, from outdoor to in, they have contracted a nasty case of the"fleasles".

     Fleas, as every pet owner knows, are a nuisance to any fur bearing critter, and they are particularly bad here in the South. My dogs have flea collars (more on this in my next blog). As for Boo, he gets the occasional back-of-the-neck "spot on" formula, and we keep a flea comb handy, but given he's not intermingling with the babies in the basement, he's relatively safe.

     So with a gorgeous day to do it in, I set out to bomb the basement (for those unfamiliar, go to http://www.wikihow.com/Flea-Bomb-a-House; this is not for the faint of heart, but given the complexity of the situation, it was the only real choice) moving my trio of playful teenage kitties to the back deck, (which simultaneously turned my indoors into a life size pinball machine with Rosebud as the ball.) Suffice it to say it was not a quiet afternoon, though fortunately, the kitties, were un-phased by Rosebud. (I wish I could say the same about my furniture.) 

     Next up: treat the kitties.

     Running across a year-old tube of flea formula, I checked the label to confirm it could be used on kittens, but to be EXTRA cautious (fully knowing this might not rid me of all the fleas, but it was a start), I divvied the one tube among 4 cats (Boo, upstairs, got a tad; the three kittens got a tad; note the formula was to be used entirely on one full grown cat; again, I THOUGHT I was being safe.) Turns out...not so much.
      Coinciding with this event, was the fact that this was going to be the kitties first night in the great outdoors. I had cleaned, moved (even painted) the Igloo house that once sheltered Rosey's puppies their first night outdoors (If you aren't familiar, these are weather resistant dog houses shaped like an igloo, supposedly to keep animals from jumping on them, though my goats have mastered this to perfection)...In short, I was both excited and relieved to be finally shifting my growing kittens onto their intended turf. They could stay on the porch, huddle in their igloo, or climb down a tree if they wanted. It was, in fact, kitty paradise. Last step of the process: apply the flea formula (1 tube, divided by 4, with Boo getting half because he's HUGE, and the remaining 3 kitties getting a third of the other half, making that ....? Someone else can do the math.)

     The next morning (Sunday...another beautiful day), I go outside to check on the babies to find only one there to greet me. (Three guesses as to which one: yep. The tortie.) Hissy Missy is swishing and swaying and doing the tail-around-your-leg thing, hoping he's gonna get all three bowls of food I've toted out. The other two are nowhere to be found...though I could hear them.

     Gracie, was directly under the deck, poised to pounce, guestimating the leap between porch rafter and log pile. Sammy, on the other hand, had made his way back to the familiar basement door where he was hunkered down, crying and shaking uncontrollably.

     At first glance he appeared to be traumatized by something. I picked him up and held him close, as he continued to shake and purr simultaneously. "It's OK Sammy....It's OK...It's OK...I'm sorry I left you outside...Did something scare you? Who scared you?" (Rosebud had not been out without a leash, though clearly in the country, any number of animals prowl at night. I'm wondering "Maybe a possum?..But on closer inspection, there were no wound marks...nothing to indicate physical damage.)

     Placing him on the floor, I watched him stumble, then stagger, his little body spasming as he tried to walk. Fortunately, he did eat, though the water part seemed to confuse him. Suddenly it dawned on me: he wasn't  traumatized: he was toxified!

     I raced upstairs for my Dawn detergent and a clean towel to scrub whatever residual flea formula I could off his little blonde body, which did not resist (unusual for a cat). "Hang in there Sammy! Hang on bud...Mommy's SO Sorry.... I am SO sorry, Sammy, I'm SO SORRY..." (I'm crying and scrubbing...crying and scrubbing.)

     I guess it was subconscious. (I didn't google till after.) But something from all the animal rescue footage I've seen over the years must've kicked in (visions of the Valdez oil spill in particular). After 2 - 3 round of washing and rinsing (fleas flowing off the little guy like crazy) I patted him dry as I held him and rocked his little body, that twitch every so often out of sheer reflex. I went for a dropper and got a few rounds of goat's milk into his little brown mouth; then I bundled him up as I went to gather the other two to keep him company. 

     NEXT came the google search. And I searched. And I searched. And I searched. There were plenty of links on how to SPOT flea formula toxicity...Hotlines to call so folks could confirm your symptoms (which I didn't need; I knew what I was looking at). But sadly there was no real advice as to what to do about it after the fact. So I called my trusting vet friend, Dr. G, who, though now retired, cared for my every childhood pet from dogs to cats to hamsters and is the wisest man I know when it comes to caring for animals. While I could not find the packaging (I feared I had tossed it in trash I had already hauled; fortunately, I DID find it later) Dr. G already surmised what was happening, assuring me that if my little guy pulled through (and eating was a good sign) that the good news is, the damage would not be permanent.

     This story ends on a good note. (Thank you God.) If you ever encounter this situation, the good news is the effects are not permanent. What I feared would do irreversible damage to little Sammy's nervous system, fortunately proved unfounded. Today, Sammy is back to his bouncy, normal kitty self, playfully enjoying both outdoors and in with his fellow partners in crime.

     That said, today finds me on a mission to study the ingredients, not only in the toxic formulas I will no longer be using, but in the alternatives, which, if I can grow it, I'll be making myself. 

     (And if I do...I'll let you know.)