T-3 Countdown

It's looking like days are now numbered for T-3's stay in my office.

In the days since my initial post about her, the little goat kid who was once on death's door has continued to thrive. She's drinking more milk than ever, and isn't shy about letting me know she's hungry. As a result, she's growing very nicely. Definitely putting on weight, and is extremely healthy and energetic.

So, what's the problem? Why are her days numbered?

In short, she's now figured out how to do this:

pretty much at will, any time she feels like it. Yes, it's fun having her hop up and climb onto me when I stretch out to read a book or watch TV. But I've already caught her trying to piddle on the couch...and if she ever succeeds in soaking the cushions, that's going to be a problem.

So far, she's not terribly interested in jumping up unless there's a person on the couch to be with. Or a dog.

But sometimes, it seems she just wants to be "up." Because, you know, that's just What. Goats. Do. There's a reason why they're not house pets.

We'll probably give her a few more days to bulk up, and then begin transitioning her to the barn. It'll depend on the weather, of course. I'm not going to put her out there if the temps drop into the single digits. But if we get a reasonably mild stretch (at least by January-in-Michigan standards), we'll definitely make the move.

Here We Go(at) Again

Looks like my office building is back to being Goat Central Station.

Francesco, the kid who arrived just before Thanksgiving, is thriving. Shortly after putting up the blog post about him, Francesco began going all "mountain goat" on my furniture. I can tolerate a lot of goat piddle on the vinyl floor, but not on the couch. Given how big and strong he was getting, and how easily he was jumping onto everything at will, it was clear that he was ready to get demoted from Pet Goat back to Plain Old Goat. He's been living in the barn, with the rest of the herd, for well over a month now. Still getting bottle-fed, but he's also been trying out some hay and grain. He remains huge, and beautiful, and we have high hopes for him as a future breeder.

Just as I was settling in and enjoying having the office to myself (and the truly domesticated pets), we had a most untimely arrival. About a week ago, a bitter cold front plowed through, dropping the temps into single digits and below. Naturally, that's exactly when one of our other does decided to deliver her goat kid.

Fortunately, our twelve year old was making regular trips to the barn to feed Francesco --- so he found the poor little thing before it froze to death. She was laying in a heap, soaking wet, coated in afterbirth, and unable to stand. She was also very small; much smaller than Francesco, and even smaller than most newborn kids. Clearly, her mother goat had written her off as hopeless; she hadn't even bothered licking the little one dry.

Our first thought was to use towels and a blow dryer to get her cleaned up. It quickly became obvious that this wouldn't be enough, however. The barn was simply way too cold, and the kid couldn't stand on her own feet when we tried to set her upright. Plus, it was doubtful she'd ever nurse from her mother goat. Bottom line was that even completely dry, she wouldn't last the night out there in the barn.

That left only one option: spirit her into my office building and get her comfortable in a cardboard box next to the heater. Within a couple of hours, she was almost completely dry. Problem was, though, she was still too small and weak to stand. Every time I tried setting her on her feet, her gangly legs buckled and collapsed.

We knew she needed to eat, so Homeschooled Farm Girl and I returned to the barn to try getting some colostrum from Mother Goat. Unfortunately, this was a fairly young doe and her udder was barely enlarged. Plus, her teats were very small. HFG couldn't express more than a few drops.

Plan B. I warmed up a large bottle of plain goat milk for Francesco, and tried giving some to the new goat kid before going out to feed him. Given how weak she was, I wasn't sure she'd have the strength to suck much down. Fortunately, she proved me wrong. Once the first bit of warm milk hit her tongue, she was off to the races. Started sucking like crazy, and took the better part of that large bottle --- several ounces worth. Happily, I refilled the bottle for Francesco.

The next morning, the Yeoman Farm Children managed to get about a cup of colostrum out of the new mother goat. And another cup that evening. I began feeding that liquid gold to the kid, and she impressed me with her sucking ability.

Not, however, with her standing ability. Try as I might, I couldn't get her to support her own weight. And I tried several times that day and into the next. Finally (I can't remember how long it took), she began balancing unsteadily before collapsing. Then she began taking a few tentative steps. Because my office floor is so slick, she mostly just scooted around. She especially liked scooting into small, confined spaces, like around HFG's bicycle that'd been set up on an indoor trainer. I think she liked the sense of security, and having what felt like a "safe place". Just had to make sure HFG always looks carefully before using the bike!

Finally, very slowly, the new kid's number of tentative steps increased. Then increased more. Now, about at about a week old, she's getting around my office completely at will. This is a much slower pace than Francesco's, but I couldn't care less. She's healthy, getting strong, growing larger, and looks like she's going to make it. (Plus, the mother goat's milk has kicked in and we're getting a pretty good supply.) I don't even mind cleaning up the goat kid's piddle puddles, because those puddles tell me her whole little system is working.

Once she was out of the woods, Mrs Yeoman Farmer and I told the children that they could name the new kid. After trying out several that wouldn't work, they settled on a placeholder: T-3.

Where did THAT come from? She's the third kid to be born in the most recent crop or wave of goats. (Francesco was #2, and shortly before him was Goat Burger ... guess which one we were planning to keep, and which we planned to send to the freezer?) In the spirit of the Cat in the Hat, these kids could be thought of as Thing One, Thing Two, and now...Thing Three. Or T-3 for short. Eventually she'll have to get a better name than that; when you have this many animals to name, sometimes it takes a while to settle on something that hasn't already been used.

She's quickly becoming "one of the gang" here in my office.

I'm looking forward to enjoying her company for the next couple of weeks. At least until she decides to go all mountain goat on my furniture...at which point she will get demoted back to the barn.

Just in time, no doubt, for a T-4 to come join the party here in Goat Central Station.

Not Such a Bummer

Raise sheep or goats long enough, and you're sure to get the occasional "bummer" --- a newborn which, for whatever reason, doesn't get nursed by his or her own mother. Any time we have lambs or goat kids, we pay close attention to the bond the newborn is developing with Mom. The overwhelming majority of the time, things work out great. But when they don't, it's important to have the bottles and nipples ready.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving (November 23), we came home from a day with relatives to discover a newborn goat kid in the barn. His mother goat had licked him off, and he was perfectly dry. That's usually a good sign. He was up and moving around nicely - another good sign. He was quite large, and beautiful. We didn't actually see him nurse, but he seemed content. For her part, the mother seemed to be doing fine as well. It was her first kidding, and she seemed to have taken it in stride. Other than what appeared to be a little bit of afterbirth protruding from her rear end, she looked no different than she had that morning.

Monday morning, however, it was clear something wasn't right. The goat kid was bleating like he was hungry, and yet we couldn't get him fastened on to a nipple. His mother's udder was very full, another sign that he hadn't been nursing. Plus, Mom's "afterbirth" hadn't come out the rest of the way, so we gave it a closer look. It appeared that her birth canal had actually prolapsed somewhat during the delivery. We'd never had this happen before, to any of our sheep or goats, so it came as quite a surprise.

Concerned about infection, we immediately called the vet. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer arranged for the goat to be seen, and in the meantime Homeschooled Farm Girl milked all the colostrum out that she could. We took the goat kid to my office, and used a small syringe to squirt colostrum into his mouth. He was definitely hungry, and lapped the stuff up eagerly.

Given how nasty cold the weather was getting, we decided it would be best to leave the goat kid in my office for the time being.

The box proved a little small, but was a good try

Mrs. Yeoman Farmer took the mother goat to the vet, who diagnosed a prolapsed vagina. Fortunately, it was a fairly straightforward fix, and he said it shouldn't recur in future kiddings. He got everything put back in place, stitched it securely, and MYF drove the goat home.

We tried again to get the kid to nurse, but it clearly wasn't going to happen. Despite his obvious hunger, he wouldn't go on the teat. And Mom, for her part, didn't want to stand still for him anyway. With all the stress of birthing complications, and the trip to the vet, it appeared that their bond was permanently broken. Bummer.

Homeschooled Farm Girl again milked out all the colostrum she could; we put it in a bottle, and fed it to the kid in my office. He got the hang of the nipple right away, and sucked the stuff down with gusto. Our kids named him "Francesco," in honor of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals.

With the weather not looking any better, I didn't have the heart to leave Francesco out in the barn. My office building has an old vinyl floor, which has seen more pet accidents than I can count, and cleans up well enough. Besides, with two farm dogs and a cat already living out here...what difference would another little animal make? I decided to let him stay until he gets big enough to go all "mountain goat" on my furniture and/or starts leaving goat pellets all over the place. Then, he will get transitioned to the barn. We're hoping that being bottle-fed will make him more docile and manageable, and therefore a safer adult breeding buck to keep on the property long-term.

Three days old. Decided the collie was more comfortable than his box.

On Thanksgiving Day, he was only five days old. We were planning to be gone all day visiting family, which created a problem: Francesco would need to eat, and no one would be home to feed him. We decided to put him in a large box, and take him (and a quart of goat milk) with us.

Francesco proved to be a big hit at the family gathering, and one of our kids' cousins in particular really enjoyed holding him and getting a turn bottle feeding him. The rest of the time, he stood or slept securely in his box.

Back at home, he continued working to fit in with the the other denizens of my office building.

Floyd, the border collie, was the most welcoming

Tiger, the cat...not so much

By December 1st, at just over a week old, Francesco figured out how to climb onto the couch like the other pets do. He's not stupid. It's a lot more comfortable than the floor.

Tiger remained unimpressed

Floyd continues to treat him as just another member of the gang, and seems happy to keep serving as Francesco's pillow.

The Homeschooled Farm Children think it's great fun having a new pet. I designated the 12 year old as primary bottle-feeder; he needs to be reminded to take care of it, but he gets the job done. In the meantime, five-year-old Little Brother is eager to fill in any time we let him.

On a farm, it seems there's no shortage of opportunities for learning responsibility...even while having fun the whole time you're learning it.

As for me...it's kind of weird having a goat kid rummaging around in my trash can, pulling out pieces of paper, and nibbling them down. And I do need to keep a pile of old towels handy, for his inevitable piddle puddles.

The goat is more likely to eat your homework than the dog ever will be

But I have to admit, it's also a lot of fun having him around. He spends quite a bit of time at my feet, under the desk, on an old piece of carpet.

Technically speaking, I guess he'll always be a "bummer." But he definitely hasn't been one for our family.

Thank God for Good Vets

It can be hard to find a good large-animal veterinarian. We were fortunate to have one just around the corner from us in Illinois, and who didn't charge a fortune to come see us at the farm. Here, it took us awhile to locate a good vet who can see the livestock, but we did at last find one; most of his practice is dogs and cats, but he has good experience with farm animals. He will come out on farm calls, but it's a fairly steep charge. Since every one of our animals is small enough to fit in a vehicle, we find it makes most sense to drive the 14 miles to his office.

A year or two ago, one of our excellent dairy goats, Thistle (or, as our four-year-old called her when he was learning to talk, "Fissle"), developed a cancer of her eye. A sizable tumor began consuming the eyeball, and it was one of the most unsettling things we'd ever seen. We were really afraid we might have to put her down. The vet said not to worry; he'd seen this numerous times before in various types of livestock, and knew just what to do. He put her under anesthesia, and in very short order (1) removed the entire eyeball and (2) sewed her eyelid shut. The next day, Thistle was home on the farm and feeling fine. She's certainly one of the more bizarre-looking animals, and has only half her original sight, but is otherwise none the worse for the experience. She remains a gentle doe who takes good care of her kids and gives us lots of milk. With the added bonus that she's now much easier to catch --- you just need to sneak up on her from the "blind side."

Which brings us to Button, the mother of Thistle. She had twin kids about a month ago, and has been producing an outrageous amount of milk. We're talking basketball-sized udder, with teats like great big sausages. Plenty for the twins and us.

Anyway, late last week, Button got some sort of scrape on her right teat. It wasn't too big a deal, and the Yeoman Farm Children worked around it when they milked. We treated it with salve, and it was scabbing over. Problem was, the scab began growing and blocking the milk hole. This meant it had to be opened up a bit for each milking. Which was fine...but on Sunday morning we found the hole simply would not open. We tried everything we could, but didn't want to hurt her; we were concerned that scar tissue might be forming.

Mrs Yeoman Farmer called the vet, who was willing to see Button on a Sunday --- but there would be a substantial "emergency fee." We were grateful for the option, but knew Button would be fine (if a little full) until Monday morning.

The plan was to get Button packed up and to the vet as close as possible to his 8am opening time; he sees walk-ins from 8-10 on most mornings, so we wanted to be first in line. Unfortunately, as Homeschooled Farm Girl and I were moving Button out of the barn to our van, the goat's engorged teat caught on a piece of fence and tore the skin. Great. One thing after another. Now quite worried, and somewhat delayed, we sped off to the vet.

We turned out to be second in line, and got in to see him after just a short wait. Must be interesting being a country vet; the person ahead of us was an elderly lady getting her pet dog's toenails trimmed. Then us, with a dairy goat with a torn teat! Anyway, the vet was a bit taken aback at first by the wound, but then got right to work computing how much anesthesia Button would need. He gave her a little shot, she collapsed in a heap, and then I helped the vet lift Button onto a work table.

First order of business was to clean the teat and bathe the cut with some sort of antibiotic cream. He then needed to drain the teat, which he did by inserting a catheter and then putting a bowl under it to catch the milk. After all the work we usually have to do, expressing milk, it was amazing to see the stuff all come running out like through a faucet. I even joked that we'd better not let our children see this process, or they'll ask if they can start catheterizing the goats every time they go out to milk.

With the teat going flaccid, and with me holding Button's leg so she wouldn't interfere with his work if she twiched, he began suturing the cut closed. He explained that he was leaving plenty of loose skin, so the teat would be able to expand with milk. It took him just a few minutes to get everything done.

Then, since the anesthetic still had Button nearly entirely knocked out, he took advantage of the opportunity to give her hooves a good trimming. "It's a lot easier when they can't kick!" he joked.

This whole time, my daughter had been sitting in the quiet waiting room, doing school work. Once Button awakened, the vet and I called Homeschooled Farm Girl back and explained the situation. Button would need to be milked several times per day, to make sure the re-opened teat remained open and didn't scar over. This would need to be done gently, taking care not to stress the sutures. And we would obviously need to keep Button totally separated from her kids for the next ten days or so.

HFG happily volunteered to take on the management of the situation, all the way from milking Button to bottle-feeding that milk to the twins. Needless to say, it's very gratifying whenever one of your children takes that kind of initiative, without any kind of "bargaining" or questioning what might be in it for her. It just needs doing, and she wants to take charge of it.

So, after a wild morning, we're all back home on the farm. Just another crazy day in our life.

Spring is Back! (And so am I...)

Where has the time gone? One thing led to another, and the next I knew...the blog had been dormant for two years. Thanks to all who sent messages encouraging me to post again, and my apologies for the length of time it has taken to get back in the saddle.

What's been happening? After my last post, in the spring of 2012, professional work more or less took over the rest of that year. As a public opinion research consultant, presidential election years are my absolute busiest time --- and 2012 turned out to be even busier than usual. In addition to voter microtargeting, and analyzing survey data, I am also part of CNN's election night decision team; we're the ones who decide when to project a race for a particular candidate.

Then, shortly after the election, we got big news of great joy: Mrs Yeoman Farmer and I were expecting a baby. However, the pregnancy turned out to be a physically challenging one for MYF, which meant the rest of the family needed to come together in supporting her and picking up a bigger share of the farm work. The garden was scaled back, as were the numbers of livestock we were raising.

Our new baby girl was due in mid-August, but couldn't wait to join the fun. In mid-July, more than five weeks ahead of schedule, she decided it was time to get moving. At 7am on a Monday morning, in the car driving home from the airport after a wonderful weekend trip visiting friends and family in Seattle, I got the call from MYF that her water had broken. Once back at the farm, I whisked MYF to the hospital. We spent the rest of the day there, undergoing tests and observations, until the medical team decided Baby Girl needed to come out by emergency Cesarean.

Baby Girl is doing well and thriving now, but there were numerous complications that kept her in the NICU for nearly a month. And then she needed heart surgery in October. I will write more about some of these issues in future posts --- but for those interested in a general overview of what we went through, I recently had an article published which describes that roller-coaster. Thanks to the skills of some truly amazing medical professionals, and the prayers of countless people all over the world, Baby Girl is expected to live a long and very happy life.

I don't want to dwell too much on the brutal winter we're now finally emerging from here in the Upper Midwest. Suffice it to say that this was easily the worst winter I've personally experienced in my 45 years. The snow that fell before Christmas is still out in our pasture. Our hay field finally became visible again last week, as did our lawn. We expect cold winters in Michigan, but what made this one so difficult was its relentlessness. Usually, we get an arctic blast and some snow --- and then a few days where the temps go above freezing, the snow melts, and it's merely "cold" for a little while before the next storm passes through. Those periodic thaws are the stepping stones that make Midwestern winters tolerable.

This year, we didn't get a single thaw for the entire winter. All the snow that fell...stayed. And no one knew what to do with it. We shoveled and shoveled our driveway, but soon had walls of snow high on both sides. Our church, and many big shopping centers with large parking lots, have enormous mountains of plowed snow that have now turned into stubborn icebergs. We joke that kids will still be sledding on these things in mid-May, when it's sixty degrees out.

Today it's in the forties, and is expected to stay above freezing all the way into next week. Our whole property is rapidly turning into a mud bog, but I'll take that over the snow. It's unclear when things will dry out enough to allow planting, or when the pasture will revive enough to turn the animals out on it. This year, it seems that all bets are off. So, we're taking things one day at a time. I'm just glad we put in a larger-than-usual supply of hay. And firewood.

We had several goat kids born over the course of the winter, and are now enjoying an excellent supply of milk from the does. Surprisingly, despite the bitter cold, almost all of the kids survived. We lost a  couple of them, but for the most part were able to keep the barn buttoned up tightly enough to keep them from freezing to death. I also discovered a very useful tool for winter kidding: a blow-drier! The mother goats usually get the kids licked off to dry them, but in the dead of winter...a nice warm blast of air from a hair drier gave some much-needed assistance. Also, getting the kids thoroughly warmed up means their bodies are less stressed. It seems to have helped a lot.

But the true heralds of spring are the lambs. And our first ones were born last night! I went out to the barn a little before midnight to make my final checks, and discovered that one of our mature ewes, Conundrum, had delivered a set of twin females. Both were on their feet, but pretty wet. I tried to give an assist with the hair drier, but Conundrum objected loudly. Given that it wasn't terribly cold last night, and that our Icelandic ewes are outstanding mothers, I decided to butt out. And, indeed, they had a good night. Both lambs were dry and dancing around this morning.

I'll leave you with some pictures of them (note the snow shovel used to block a gap in the door -- there's a stubborn chunk of frozen dirt that's preventing the door from sliding all the way shut):

Notice the black one was even climbing all over Mom:

It's good to be back and blogging again. I promise the next post will take less than two years to go up!

Saving the Queen

I have a goat kid living in my office again, wandering around with the dog (and getting bottle feedings) by day, and sleeping in a box near my desk by night. How this came about is quite a story.

Our best dairy goat ever, by far, was Queen Anne's Lace. She was also our first goat, and our oldest. She got the name because, as a nearly-full-blooded Saanen, she was basically the same color as the Queen Anne's Lace flowers that grew all over our Illinois property. We got her already in milk, after her first kidding, and she was a wonderful addition to our farm. Her udder was enormous, as were her teats, making her copious volume of milk easy to access. What's more, she had a pleasant temperament, was docile and gentle, and readily came to the stanchion at milking time. She is the goat standing along behind the barn in the photo dominating this blog's masthead.

QAL didn't have papers, but we think she recently turned eight years old. Eight is no longer young for a goat, but not exactly over the hill. That's why I was surprised, about a week and a half ago, when she began having a great deal of difficulty following the rest of the herd out of the barn. I helped her over the threshold, but she then promptly stumbled and went down on her stomach. I helped her back up, but she stood for only a moment before again going down. With something clearly wrong, I had Homeschooled Farm Girl help me lift and half-drag QAL back into the barn and over to the separating pen.

QAL's udder and teats looked full, and given her girth and weight she was obviously in advanced stages of pregnancy. We brought feed and water to her, and made her comfortable in the separating pen; that was a week ago Friday night. On Saturday morning I managed to help her up, but it took great effort because of her weight. She stood for a few minutes, but then laid back down. Given how much she weighed, I chalked this up to the late pregnancy. Once she delivered, I hoped she would be able to rise more easily --- like dropping ballast from a balloon. Until then, we resolved to keep her comfortable with lots of clean bedding, bring her feed and water and mineral, and not try to force her to her feet.

I had to leave for a business trip on Sunday evening, which is usually the cue for some kind of disaster to break loose on the farm. Sure enough, Monday evening, just as I was getting ready to go out to dinner with some colleagues in Atlanta, I got "the call." Mrs. Yeoman Farmer informed me that Queen Anne's Lace was in labor --- and was having a lot of trouble. QAL was in the middle of delivering twins, and the first one had come out easily. She'd now been working on the second one for some time, and was sounding horrible. Nothing more than a hoof was coming out. MYF wanted to know how long she should wait before intervening and assisting with the delivery. We talked it over, and MYF decided to take some time to review her books about kidding; if the kid wasn't out by the time she finished, she wouldn't wait any longer.

It's a good thing MYF didn't delay long. She called me back a little while later (I was still at the restaurant) with an update: she'd gotten out her big shoulder-length plastic gloves and started reaching inside QAL to see if she could help extract the kid. From what she could tell, the kid was very large. She'd managed to guide its hooves and head into the birth canal a number of times, but it was so big its forehead kept getting stuck halfway out. QAL was exhausted and sounding like she was going into a death rattle. I felt absolutely awful, and wished there was some possible way to get home. I tried to be encouraging, but didn't know what else to tell her other than "keep at it."

Back at the hotel, I called again. It was now after 10pm, and things were looking really bad. The kid was still stuck. QAL was still in agony. Back in the house, Yeoman Farm Baby was nearing meltdown. No one had eaten dinner. Everyone was exhausted. Morale was as low as it could be. "I hate to just let her die," MYF said, "But I really don't know what else to do. I just cannot get that kid out."

I said not to worry about the kid. It was probably already dead. Just somehow, some way, get the thing out.

Actually, ssurprisingly, MYF told me, the kid was still alive. While she'd been feeling around inside QAL, her finger accidentally went inside the kid's mouth --- and the kid had reflexively begun sucking on it!

MYF needed help, badly, but there was really no one we could call. Our local vet does not yet serve large animals (though, thankfully, that will be changing later this month). The only vet in 30 miles who looks at livestock is retired from farm calls; you have to bring the animal to him, during regular clinic hours. I suggested that MYF call a friend, to watch the Yeoman Farm Children and help with the house, while MYF finished with the goat --- but it was too late to call anyone. Who's still up at 10pm and willing to come help with this kind of chaos?

With no other options, going on pure hope, I signed onto Facebook and sent a message to a friend who lives up the road and raises horses. I explained that it was too late to call, and we didn't want to disturb them, but that MYF was totally out of options. If she (the friend) still happened to be up and happened to be reading this message, would there be any possible way she could come over and help with the youngest YFCs while MYF and the older YFCs assisted the goat?

What unfolded over the next two hours was one for the books. The friend was indeed up, and did get the message. She wasn't personally able to come, but called MYF and suggested some large animal vets that had seen their horses. MYF tried calling them, but they were either unavailable or said they did nothing but horses. In the meantime, the friend's husband volunteered to help. He had zero experience with goats --- but got online, watched some YouTube videos, and quickly read everything he could about the kidding process. He got to our farm a little bit later, and MYF called with this news. She'd managed to feed the YFCs, and was preparing to take the neighbor out to QAL.

With the time now well past 11pm, and it uncertain how long it would take for a resolution to the situation in the barn, we agreed that I should go to bed and wait for a call in the morning. I sent a heartfelt thank-you note back to the neighbor via Facebook, and then tried to go to bed --- but the sense of guilt and helplessness gnawed at me. I only got a few hours of sleep, and kept waking up feeling bad about everything unfolding on our farm while I was so far away and unable to help like I knew I should.

I finally got up around 6am, with a heavy heart, knowing we'd probably lost our best goat in a terrible fashion. But then I turned on my phone, and discovered a voicemail notification from Mrs Yeoman Farmer that had come in at about half past midnight. As it began playing, the tone of relief in her voice was palpable. Our neighbor had, miraculously, managed to extract the goat kid. It was HUGE. Far larger than any newborn kid we'd ever seen. Monstrously large. Both kids were in the house in a box near the fire, and were hungry. She was preparing to feed them, and didn't know how late everyone would be sleeping in the next morning, but she wanted me to get the news as soon as I woke up. Best of all: QAL was alive.

I made many acts of thanksgiving, and walked with a real spring in my step to a nearby church for Mass --- where my acts of thanksgiving continued in an unbroken stream.

Once I spoke with MYF later in the day, it became clear we weren't out of the woods. QAL still hadn't gotten up. And there was something seriously wrong with the big goat kid --- he seemed really slow. But the smaller one seemed very well, and was even learning how to drink milk from a pan.

QAL's inability to get up was curious. Our neighbor said she'd heard of this happening to horses during pregnancy; if the foal presses on a nerve in the wrong way, it can cause paralysis. I did some research online, and learned that the same thing can happen to other livestock (including goats). I promised to get QAL to our vet as soon as I got home on Wednesday.

In the meantime, I phoned a friend who's been trained in chiropractic techniques and described what was going on. Is it possible, I wondered, that her spine could be pinching a nerve because it was out of adjustment? This person confirmed that it was possible, and said a spine adjustment certainly couldn't make the goat's condition any worse. To my great surprise, this person went out of their way to drop by our farm at 9pm that night to give it a try. They did uncover a few places where she was out of adjustment, and did what they could to get her better aligned. QAL still couldn't get to her feet, but I was grateful to this friend for giving it a shot. I figured it could only help, once I got the goat to a vet.

I called the vet's office from the airport, and they said QAL could be seen that evening at 6pm. From my description, the vet said the pinched-nerve-paralysis (it has a more technical name, but I can't remember or spell it), was a highly likely diagnosis. He'd seen it a lot in cattle, and said it could be treated with steroid injections.

Back home, I learned that the monstrous goat kid had unfortunately expired early Wednesday morning. But QAL was in surprisingly good spirits, despite not being able to stand. Her head was up, she was alert and eating, and would drink from a bucket when put in front of her. I washed her backside, and moved her to clean bedding. She could move her hind quarters and legs, but just couldn't pull herself to her feet. Still, I was heartened that she was trying.

That afternoon, the YFCs helped me load QAL in the back of our old Ford Bronco, and Homeschooled Farm Boy rode with me to the vet. The vet met us in the parking lot under a street light, and indeed diagnosed the pinched nerve parylasis --- but he said he was encouraged by her rumen, and that her digestive system was functioning so well. He gave the goat some steroid injections, and instructed me to call him Friday morning with an update.

Things were largely unchanged on Friday. She was still struggling to get up, and still failing, but was continuing to eat and drink well. The vet prepared an additional injection, which I drove to his office to pick up; I administered that one to the goat myself. And that one had as little effect as the first.

As the weekend progressed, but the goat's condition did not, the question became: "How long do we let this go on?" The vet told us that animals could be down like this for some time, and that the healing process at her age could be slow. Mrs Yeoman Farmer and I talked it over, and decided that as long as Queen Anne's Lace wanted to continue fighting...we would continue doing everything we could for her.

The YFCs and I kept going out to the barn several times a day, offering QAL water and grain and good-quality hay. And she continued eating and drinking and holding her head high. And was even beginning to get good at scooting around a little to reach things.

And then came Tuesday afternoon, eight days after the delivery. She drank some water, when offered, but not much. She did poke at the hay, but wasn't much interested in her grain. She mostly turned her head from me when I put things in front of her. I hoped it was temporary, and that perhaps she was just full. But late that night (after midnight, actually), when I made one last visit to check on her, she still wasn't interested in anything. Even when offered the bucket of water, she cranked her head sharply away. I sighed, patted her big neck, and told her what a good goat she'd been.

Wednesday morning, to my complete unsurprise, Queen Anne's Lace's body was motionless in the straw. I was proud of her for putting up such a good and long fight, and I knew we'd done everything we could for her. It was tough losing her, but the end of the road comes eventually for every animal --- even the best.

Are we sad? Sure. She was the greatest goat we could've asked for. The toughest part, by far, was removing her heavy collar before disposing of her body. The physical difficulty of loosening the buckle reminded me of just how long we'd had her; we fastened that buckle onto her over six years ago, and had never unfastened it since. It'll be strange putting it onto another goat. It'll certainly be a big collar to fill.

But as sad as it is to lose her, I remain deeply thankful. Thankful that we got to have such a wonderful goat for so long. But above all, we're thankful for experiencing the blessing of friends, who dropped everything to help us at odd hours of the night --- and at great personal inconvenience to themselves. We learned that even the most monstrously large goat kids can be extracted with some perseverance. We learned a lot about this new "pinched nerve" condition, and will be alert to it in our other animals.

And we have this new, healthy little kid, who's having a grand time with me and the dog all day every day in my office.

Not Strong Enough

We gave it the old college try with the goat kids born early Saturday morning, but in the end they just weren't strong enough.

It was an easy call with the smaller of the two. It was really scrawny, and couldn't even hold its head up to eat. We made it comfortable, and then I euthanized it.

We had higher hopes for the larger of the two. She made numerous attempts to stand up, and was clearly acting hungry. We warmed up a cup or so of milk from one of the other goats, and I fed it to the kid with a medicine dropper. She sucked it down with gusto, and I wondered if she might just have enough fighting spirit to make it.

Alas, spirit wasn't enough. There was something wrong with her legs, and we could not get her to stand up for more than a couple of seconds. This is even after having gotten her good and dry, and fed, and letting her take a good nap. Her legs kept buckling, every time we tried to get her to stand.

I suppose we could've kept bottle feeding her indefinitely, hoping her legs would eventually strengthen. But there was another problem: her mother goat was so pathetic and runty, her udder was barely discernible. The Yeoman Farm Children didn't see how the mother could ever support this kid. Which means the doe is a good candidate for a cull, but that's another story.

The more immediate issue was the kid that couldn't stand. Given the extremely long odds against her ever living a normal life, it didn't seem that we had a lot of options. She had a comfortable afternoon in a box by the heater in my office. Then, unpleasant as it was, I knew we really had to put her down.

I realize that there are any number of ways to kill a little goat kid quickly and without pain. Still, my preference is a pistol shot to the forehead. It's extremely fast and sure, and with a relatively small caliber doesn't amount to overkill. I won't go into details, other than to assure you that the kid's death was indeed instantaneous.

Farming has such great joys. And it also has days like yesterday. It's all of one piece, and it really isn't possible to have the former without the latter. But I wouldn't trade this life for anything.

What Would YOU Do?

We're facing a tough dilemma this morning. While out in the barn at about 6:30am, feeding the various animals, I stumbled over a couple of little newborn goat kids. They were still wet, and were barely moving, but were definitely alive. As it was about 25 degrees in the barn (and near zero outside), my first thought was getting these poor things warmed up.

I found a cardboard box, put some loose hay in it, and made the two kids comfortable in front of the fire. They bleated and cried at first, which is a good thing, and then they got quiet and went to sleep.

Once Homeschooled Farm Girl awakened, she went out to the barn and identified the mother goat. It's a small little runt of a doe, and I believe this is her first delivery. I had HFG move the doe to a separating pen, because that's the only way we'll have any hope of putting these kids on her.

My plan is to get the kids warmed up, get some milk into their stomachs, and see if they can stand on their own legs. If not (and one of them is so small, I have serious doubts), they're going to have to be put down. If we can get them strong enough to stand and walk today, we'll try to get the doe to take them and bond with them in the separating pen. But if not...

All of this is a super-duper long shot. I don't expect either of these kids to make it, and maybe I should've just put them down when I found them half-frozen in the barn. But here's the thing: they're here. They're alive. They're our responsibility. And by our way of thinking, we have an obligation to give these two of God's tiniest creatures a fair shot at survival.

We've seen this "movie" a number of times, and know how it ends 99% of the time: the kids don't get strong enough to stand, or the runt doe doesn't take them, or we bottle feed them to maturity only to discover they're so structurally unhealthy that there was a reason the doe rejected them. But I think we owe the Filmmaker enough to at least sit through the opening credits.

It's not the happiest part about having a farm or raising livestock. But, really, what else could we do?

Happy Endings

Living on a farm has its share disappointments ... but the unexpected joys often greatly outweigh them. As we prepare for Fall, I wanted to share two happy follow-ups to stories detailed earlier this year.

First, remember the chicks that our Barred Rock mother hen hatched out in a dark corner of the barn? Of the eight original hatchlings, only one died along the way. We gave one to a friend, leaving six. When mother hen first let the chicks spread their wings and go their own way, I was admittedly a bit nervous. The chicks didn't seem to have a clue as to what they should do without her leadership. I found myself going out to check on them several times a day, just to make sure they hadn't done something stupid.

Happily, twelve weeks after hatching, all six have survived and are now large juveniles. They've continued to be a distinct community within our larger flock, roosting together on the fence that separates the kidding pen from the rest of the goats. Interestingly, it was the same pen in which their mother hatched them. It'll be interesting to see how much longer they stick together; even during the day, they never tend to be far from each other as they forage across the property. Perhaps thanks to the upbringing their mother gave them, they seem to range much more widely and proactively than the other chickens. Here they were this morning (the sixth one is just out of the picture):

But, by far, the biggest and happiest success story is Puddles the Goat Kid. Rejected by her mother and nearly dead when we found her in the barn during a storm in March, longtime blog readers will recall how we revived her, bottle-fed her back to life, and then transitioned her to House Goat and finally Barn Goat. Well, Puddles is now a strong and healthy six-and-a-half month old member of the herd:

But she hasn't forgotten her beginnings. Whenever I call her name, she immediately responds by standing up, nickering in a particular way, and running to greet me. She's not the kind of annoying pet goat that follows humans everywhere. She's definitely bonded with the other goats, and knows she's a goat. But she also knows she's the one and only ... Puddles!

Puddles Grows Up

I've been swamped with work (and trying to stay ahead of the grass which never seems to stop growing), but wanted to give a quick update. Puddles the Goat Kid is now nearly three months old, and thriving:

Her broken leg has completely healed, thanks to an outrageous amount of duct tape. I still bottle feed her a couple of times a day, which provides a good use for the milk that we can't use (because goats stepped in it during milking, etc.). She bleats and comes running when I call her. But otherwise, she's integrating well into the rest of the herd, and spends all her days with them in the pasture. Given where she started from, 95% dead on the floor of a frozen barn in mid-March, and then with a broken leg, her current condition qualifies as pretty much miraculous.

Sadly, I can't say the same thing for Ellipsis the Lamb. We gave it everything we could for her, but she was not able to integrate with the flock (no bummer lamb we've had ever has been able to do it). She was more a pet than anything else, and I bottle fed her several times a day, but something wasn't right in her little system. I'm not sure if it's because she was eating too much stuff other than milk at too young an age. Or what. But a few weeks ago, we found her dead out in the pasture. She'd been looking a little bloated earlier that day, but had seemed to be getting around okay. And then, just as suddenly, she wasn't.

It was very sad, particularly since she was the last of Dot's line and we'd really wanted to keep her. But such is farm life, especially when livestock are involved. You give everything you have, as a good shepherd and steward. Sometimes they thrive. Sometimes they don't. It's a great mystery, and I certainly don't claim to understand it. We just keep plugging away, and keep doing everything we can for our little flock.

When All Else Fails

Try duct tape!

Seriously, that's the lesson you learn pretty quickly on a farm. We bought a large bulk pack of it at Sam's Club some time back, and I'm glad to never have a shortage.

It proved itself particularly handy a little over a week ago. About two weeks ago, Puddles the Goat Kid somehow managed to break her left rear leg, down close to the foot. I tried splinting and bandaging it, but the whole thing came off in fairly short order. She didn't seem to be in a lot of pain, and was getting around well on three legs, but I didn't want to leave the leg untreated.

So, a week ago Tuesday, I took her to the vet to have it done "right." I figure we've spent enough time and effort (and milk) bottle-feeding her, we might as well invest a little more in getting her leg correctly set. Puddles was a huge hit in the waiting room, and got lots of attention from those with dogs and cats. It took a long time for the vet to get to her, but he splinted and bandaged her leg beautifully. I left his office confident that Puddles would heal nicely, and that our $60 was well spent.

And then, last Wednesday afternoon, the splint was off. Yes, the whole thing had simply slid off her leg. I took her and it back to the vet on Thursday, waited for a long time with lots of dog-and-cat people, and he re-splinted her leg but with more bandages and tape. And only charged me $10.

And, by 6pm, the whole thing had slid right back off her leg.

Rather than spend my Friday morning back at the vet's office, I recruited one of the Yeoman Farm Children to help me splint Puddles's leg myself. I'd watched the vet enough times now to understand the general principles --- and watched Puddles lose the splint enough times to know I had to do something different as well.

And that something was DUCT TAPE. I splinted and bandaged the leg much as the vet had (fortunately, her leg was already starting to fuse, so it wasn't necessary to align the bone). Then, I basically mummified the entire thing with duct tape --- and didn't stop at her knee. I kept wrapping her, all the way up to mid-thigh. "Just try slipping this thing off!" I told her, as she limped across the floor of my office.

Guess what? Nearly one full week later, the splint is still in place! This isn't the greatest photo, but it was a dark corner of the barn and she was a perpetual motion machine (every time I knelt to take a picture, she'd rush toward me). But this gives some idea of what her leg looks like:

And Puddles is doing much better. She's actually trying to rear up and place weight on both of her rear legs. I'll keep it on her for the next week or so, to make sure it's healed, but I'm very optimistic.

And now an even bigger believer in the power of duct tape.

Lambs in Full Force (Updated)

It was chilly this morning, but beautiful and sunny. Great morning to go out to the barn and discover that TWO ewes had delivered a total of FOUR lambs overnight, and all were healthy.

Licorice's lambs were driest, so she apparently had delivered her two males first:

Maybelle, who is usually the first ewe to deliver, slipped to third place this year with this beautiful boy and girl:

Will be interesting to see if we get any more born today. At least one more of the ewes is looking enormous and ready to go any time.

BTW, as an aside, Puddles the Goat Kid has now made a complete transition to the barn. She's been sleeping there every night, and hasn't been inside my office in a few days. She even seems to be playing well with the other goat kids. Simply unbelievable the progress she's made; this is by far one of the most rewarding parts of raising livestock.

UPDATE: Later in the day, the parentage of the lambs became more clear. It turns out that Licorice had in fact had triplets, and Maybelle had a singleton. With the chaos in the sheep area, one of Licorice's triplets was following Maybelle around. But in the afternoon, they'd sorted themselves out correctly.

This is the first time in her nine lambings that Maybelle has not twinned. It's also the first time she's delivered in April rather than March. As Homeschooled Farm Girl pointed out, "She is getting old, Daddy." For the record: this is Licorice's sixth lambing, and her third set of triplets.

It's Hard Work Learning to Be A Goat

You'd be exhausted, too, when they let you back into the Yeoman Farmer's office building after spending a long day in the barn, figuring out where you fit in the caprine hierarchy.

Shhhhhh. Don't tell Puddles that when it warms up next week, she's going to have to start spending her nights in the barn, too.

Our Gallivanting Goat

As promised in the previous post, I've been looking for a chance to get video of the goat kid's new dexterity.

Turns out, I didn't have to wait for morning. When I took her in for the night, she started gallivanting across the living room. The lighting was very poor, and she was hard to capture on camera, but I did manage to get some footage. This won't win any awards for video quality, but it gives a sense for the remarkable progress she's made:

While in the house, I went upstairs to see if the Yeoman Farm Children were in bed. Wouldn't you know it...the goat kid began climbing the stairs after me! I couldn't get it on video, but it was amazing to watch. She got about halfway up, and then climbed back down. And ran across the living room again at full tilt.

It's definitely time to move her to the barn, before she dismantles everything in the house.

Demoted Back to Goat

Puddles the Goat Kid has begun her transition back to barn life in earnest. As much as I've enjoyed having an office pet, the arrangement just isn't sustainable over the long run. She's already starting to hop onto the couch every time I sit there, and then she proceeds to climb all over me and the arm of the couch. Needless to say, it's getting annoying.

She wasn't happy about it, but we left her in the barn pretty much all day today --- from 8:30am to about 7:30pm. It wasn't terribly warm outside today, but the barn was in the low thirties. Which was warm enough. We put her in the kidding pen with her own mother and the mother of the kid that died early Saturday; we didn't expect her to bond with or begin nursing from either one of them, but the idea was to get her accustomed to being around other goats --- and out of the way of the mature bucks in the main goat area. She seems to have curled up in the corner for most of the day, but it's a start.

The best news of the day was this morning. She'd spent the night in her box by the fire, in the house. When I let her out, she trotted all around the living room as usual. And then, for the first time, she did something we never expected her to be able to do: the "Goat Kid Gallivant." Anyone who's raised goats knows what I'm talking about: it's when a kid puts his/her head down and makes an energetic, half-hop / half-run trip across an open area, springing into the air with every step. It's like they have so much energy (and dexterity), simply running isn't enough. We never thought her legs would work well enough to gallivant like the other kids all do.

In the meantime, we'll probably let her sleep inside one more time tonight; the temps are expected to plunge again, and I don't want to stress her little body too much. I'll have my camera ready tomorrow when I let her out of the box. If I can catch her gallivanting again, I'll post the video to YouTube.

One Up, One Down

Sadly, the goat born late last night didn't survive his first full day. Despite making it through the night, and being up on his feet and nursing this morning, it seems the barn proved too cold for him. We left all the doors closed today, and the lights on, but I guess that wasn't enough. When Homeschooled Farm Girl came out to the barn this evening to milk, she found that the kid had expired in that fresh dry straw bed I'd made for him.

Here he was, this morning:

Lesson learned: We definitely need to invest in a blow dryer. I've been trying to avoid spending the money on a new one, but it's looking like we should bite the bullet and pick up a cheap dryer the next time we're at Wal Mart. Getting the kid totally warmed up and completely dry might have given him a better shot at survival.

But we also have good news to report in the goat department: Puddles continues to thrive beyond all expectation. She's hanging out in my office pretty much all day, and this afternoon achieved a major milestone: she managed to climb/jump onto my couch. She'd been trying for some time now, but had never been able (especially with the slick floor). Today, she put all the pieces together and jumped up to join me as I read a book. And now that she has it all figured out, she makes the jump perfectly nearly every time. I suppose it's only a matter of time before she figures out how to work the remote for the TV.

She enjoys sleeping on the couch, too:

Fear not, we will begin transitioning her to the barn tomorrow. We'd been hoping that the newborn goat kid could be her companion, and that his presence would make her transition to "goat life" easier. There are five other kids in the barn, but they're all significantly bigger and more agile than she. So, we'll keep a close eye on her tomorrow.

Goats Keep Coming

Just a quick post, because it's late.

The temperature plunged here over the last couple of days, and is expected to stay cold through the weekend at least. Thermometer says 23F right now. Which means, of course, that we found yet another cold, wet, newborn kid in the barn when we went to close it up for the night!

The two oldest Yeoman Farm Children helped me towel the thing off, and move him (yes, it's a "him") and the mother goat into the kidding pen. The YFCs made sure the doe's teats were clear, and got him to nurse a bit. He's still not perfectly dry (note to self: we really need to get a blow dryer), but I brought down a huge armload of fresh straw and made a nice dry bed in the corner. It's the least drafty part of the building, and I think he's comfortable in it. Also, we left the lights on for the night; that should make it warmer, and easier for the two of them to find each other if need be.

We'll see what we find out there in the morning.

In the meantime, "Puddles" (I love that name, but it won't stand long term; all goats here get flower names), the formerly Mostly Dead Kid, continues to thrive. Against all odds, she's putting on weight and really getting around nicely. We were going to transition her to the barn this week, but then the cold snap hit. For now, she's sleeping in the house at night and hanging out in my office most of the day. Even the dogs seem to be accepting her as another member of the pack. Go figure.

The warning that one commenter gave about not treating goats as house pets is a good one, and I am concerned about how this goat will ultimately turn out temperament-wise. We've had "too friendly" goats before, and they are indeed a hassle. The one consolation is that she's a female, so will never have the nasty male goat smell. And she may end up easier to handle and get into a stanchion for milking.

But who knows. At this point, I'm just glad she's survived.

UPDATE: We awakened this morning to temps in the low teens outside and ~36F in the barn. And the new goat kid was up on his feet, walking around, seemingly fine! I'll try to get some photos posted later today.

Our Pet Goat

The goat kid we revived from "mostly dead" continues to thrive...but, unfortunately, only in the house.

We did our best to reintroduce her to Thistle, the mother goat. The Yeoman Farm Children put Thistle in the stanchion, got some milk flowing from her teats, and tried to get the kid to suckle. She just stood there and let the nipple fall from her mouth. They tried again. And again. And again. No luck.

The YFCs milked Thistle out, and then returned her to the kidding pen. We tried leaving the kid out in the pen with her, hoping something might click, but she just sat there all afternoon. And Thistle didn't express the slightest interest in this "thing" sharing the pen with her.

So...the kid (who remains nameless, BTW) came back into the house. Where she sleeps in a box in front of the fire, and gladly takes milk when given to her from a dropper. She's put on noticeable weight. Her tendons are doing a lot better, and she's walking steadily all over the living room and kitchen when we let her out of the box. She doesn't gallop around like a typical kid, but she's making remarkable progress and I think her prognosis is excellent.

Except for the whole "bonding with other goats instead of humans" thing. I'm honestly not sure how we're going to work this, or how long she's going to be a "house goat." It's okay for now, but goats are notorious climbers. It's only a matter of time before she'll be climbing out of her box, messing all over the floor, climbing the stairs, and climbing onto the dining room table.

We took her out to my office last night, while we watched college basketball. The office has a vinyl floor, so it didn't matter if she piddled (and she did). Her footing was a bit unsteady, because vinyl is slick, but she got the hang of it soon enough. Before long, she was wandering all over my office like any other house pet. It was kind of fun, actually.

Wilbur was all over her, trying to figure out what this new little creature was. For her safety, we thought it best to move Wilbur outside (which was fine with him).

What happens next? We're not really sure. This is uncharted territory. She's a very nice goat kid. I'm just not sure how long we can continue keeping her as a house pet.

Stay tuned. There's never a dull moment on a farm.

Back from the Dead

One of our favorite scenes in The Princess Bride is when Miracle Max declares that the hero is only "mostly dead" and then proceeds to revive him.

Something similar happened on our farm Tuesday evening. It'll likely never make it into a movie, but I wanted to share it with you.

I went to the barn late that afternoon, to give hay to the sheep and goats. While in the goat area, I spotted a newborn goat kid laying on its side along a wall. It was wet, dirty, and not moving at all. I couldn't even detect its chest rising and falling to take breaths. By all appearances, it had been stillborn or had perished soon after delivery. After identifying which doe had given birth to it, my intention was to go in the house and inform the Yeoman Farm Children that they now had a goat to milk every day.

But I got an inspiration, and decided that first I should give the dead kid a nudge with my boot. Amazingly, it stirred slightly in reaction. It didn't even try to get up, and my first thought was that it was too far gone to save. The barn was cold, and this thing had been abandoned. It was 95% dead, so the humane thing would be to finish it off and forget about it.

Or so my first thought went. As I continued thinking, I wondered if the kid's problem was simply cold. And if we could get it dried off and warmed up, and get some warm milk into its belly, its condition might improve. After all, I had no evidence yet that it had some terrible health issues. I figured we owed the kid a chance, and there was no harm in taking it to the house.

So I did. I dried it off, and laid it on some plastic in front of the woodburner in the living room. The kid whined a little, and stirred a little, but otherwise simply remained sprawled on its side in front of the fire.

And there she stayed. For hours. I turned her over once or twice, but she still gave very little response. That evening, Mrs. Yeoman Farmer suggested we do more to help the kid. We gave her an injection of Bovi Sera, as we did the other kids. Then we sent one of the Yeoman Farm Children out to the barn to milk some colostrum out of the mother goat. In the meantime, we gave a subcutaneous injection of 6cc of Lactated Ringer's with 5% dextrose into each of the kid's shoulders. This is an interesting product, and is commonly used for tiny dehydrated animals. I was glad that MYF had thought to lay in a supply of it.

We let the kid's body absorb the fluids while we ate dinner, then gave her more injections after we'd eaten. Her crying and struggling against the needle were encouraging. We then tried holding her and feeding her some colostrum from a dropper. She struggled a little against the first bit, and then started sucking on the dropper with a vengeance. We put dropper after dropper into her, even though we had to hold her head up so she could take it in.

We tucked her into a box full of old rags, in front of the woodburner, and made her comfortable for the night. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer was up in the middle of the night, and gave her more colostrum. The kid got so much energy, she actually began drinking it straight from the pan.

When I came down in the morning, I was surprised to see her standing up in her box on her own. I fed her more colostrum, and tried setting her on the floor. She wasn't terribly stable, and had some difficulty walking, but it was more progress than I expected.

As Wednesday progressed, so did the goat kid. Her urine began to flow, and she also began producing some stool. We took her out of the box several times, and let her stretch her legs. She began tottering around the living room, exploring. She didn't walk nearly as well as a normal goat kid, but a hundred times better than the one I had to put down recently.

Mrs. Yeoman Farmer hit the books, and began researching what could be wrong with the kid's legs. She came across something called "Bent Leg Syndrome" or some such, and it's caused by weak tendons. These are in turn caused by a mineral or nutritional deficiency in utero, but can be remedied by feeding cod liver oil. Later in the day Wednesday, we began adding cod liver oil to the colostrum, and to our surprise the kid gobbled the stuff down like normal. Her urine flow and stool production continued, and she was spending more time on her feet. Before bed last night, I found her a bigger box.

This morning, she was wanting to stand on her own even more than yesterday. I let her totter around the living room, and her gait was markedly improved. Not good enough to keep up with a normal goat kid, but better.

We're going to attempt to put her in the kidding pen with her mother today, once the temperatures warm up a bit. We really don't want the kid to continue bonding with us, and we hope it's not to late to put her back onto her mother. In our experience, bottle-raised kids (and lambs) never learn to fit in with the rest of the herd or flock.

But we've been very much encouraged by her progress so far. And very thankful that there is indeed such a big difference between "mostly dead" and "all dead."

What Are You Prepared to DO?

That's one of my favorite lines, delivered by the Sean Connery character in a pivotal scene from The Untouchables. It's a question that every aspiring farmer ought to ask him or herself, especially before taking the responsibility for livestock --- and one that I didn't really ask myself until much later, only when I had to.

To paraphrase: "You said you wanted to get goats. Do you really want to get them? You see what I'm saying? What are you prepared to do? [...] You must be prepared to go all the way."

This morning, I had to make a gut-wrenching decision that no person with a heart wants to make: whether a struggling goat kid can really be brought to a position where he can thrive...or only, at best, be consigned to a lifetime of miserable survival at the margins. And if the judgment is the latter...well, what are you prepared to DO then?

As you may have gathered from the text and photo in yesterday's post, one of the twin goat kids Queen Anne's Lace gave birth to was very iffy. He was certainly in better shape than some kids we've had born, and we did get him put on a teat to suckle (some kids won't even do that), but he still had one very big problem: he could barely stand, and couldn't take two steps without his front legs buckling and falling to his knees. When we put him on a teat to nurse, he sprawled his rear legs behind him. One of us had to hold Mother Goat, while the other one held the goat kid on his feet.

We made sure he got a good meal last night. We owed him that, if he was to have any shot at gaining strength. But this morning, it became more clear that it wasn't an issue of strength. There was something seriously wrong with his front legs, and milk wasn't going to cure that. He hadn't gotten up all night, even though we left the lights on and the other five kids in the pen were romping around with each other; at 7am, he was still exactly where we'd left him at 10pm.

Homeschooled Farm Girl helped me put him back on a teat, but he still couldn't keep himself erect. We stood him up, and he kept toppling forward. Critically, even his mother seemed to know there was something seriously wrong with him: she would stand still for his twin brother to nurse, but grew increasingly agitated and tried to run away every time we reconnected the lame one to a teat. She's a big powerful goat, and holding her still long enough for him to nurse (and, remember, someone still had to hold the kid because he couldn't stand) was becoming nearly impossible.

We even rearranged our schedule this morning, coming home after church instead of straight to my father-in-law's house, to give the kid another shot at nursing. Same story, same rejection, and same big problem with his legs.

Now we had a decision to make. Spend the next several months picking him up and bottle feeding him in the hopes that his legs eventually change, or put him down now. If he'd been healthy, and simply a bummer kid (rejected by the mother), the decision would be easy. We wouldn't have been happy, but we would've bottle fed him.

But we've tried to bottle feed bummers with serious health issues before, and they've never ended up healthy. One of them was never able to drink water from a bucket. We literally had to bottle feed him water several times a day until he was old enough to butcher at 7 or 8 months. Another was so scrawny and sickly, even as an adult, he was constantly beaten up by the others and didn't even have enough meat to justify butchering him. (I eventually simply put him down and we threw the body away.)

The children and Mrs Yeoman Farmer and I had a quick conference. Our consensus was that we should give thanks for the five healthy goat kids born this last week, and not prolong the misery of a kid with legs so bad he can't even stand.

But actually pulling the trigger on a cute, innocent, defenseless newborn is quite different from coming to a decision in theory. Especially when the goat kid begins crying as he's taken out of the kidding pen and into the snowy yard. This is where you have to ask yourself, as a farmer or aspiring farmer, "What are you prepared to DO?"

I love my farm. And I love my animals. And this morning that meant putting a .380 hollow point round into a goat kid's head. I wasn't prepared to do that kind of thing when we first got livestock, and I managed to avoid thinking about it until I had no choice. And it's something that on occasion in the past I may have allowed myself to dodge or delay because the little critter was just so sweet and cute, even though I knew in my head that the most humane thing would be to put the animal down immediately.

It doesn't get any easier the more times you do it. It just gets a little less hard. But if I wasn't prepared to DO it, I think I'd have to get out of the livestock business altogether.

He went very quickly. And we are truly grateful for the five healthy kids and all the milk their mothers will be providing for our family this year.