The Pitter-Patter of Little (webbed) Feet

After what seemed like eons, Blueberry the Muscovy finally hatched out her clutch of eggs. We ended up with 5 adorable, feisty little babies. She and her sister, Drusilla, seem to be co-parenting the brood. It takes a village, peeps.

It's hard for me to believe that almost a year ago to the day, Dru & Blue were the day-old fuzzballs. They grow up so fast!

For your squeeing viewing pleasure -

Proud Mama Blue and her bitty babies, out for a stroll

Mama Blue and Auntie Dru watching over the littles

Blueberry and two of her day-old hatchlings

And last but not least, Mama and Auntie taking the kiddos on a grand tour of the Hollow. Absolute sweetness.

The Kids These Days

Nanny Granny Chelle needs to get her booty up to goatlandia to take more pictures of the wee ones, but, in the mean time, I hope these photos and the linked video at the end will satisfy your baby goat adorableness quota until the next installment is available. 

Chardy's babies, Cocoa & Fiona, 2 days old

Scarlet & Evangeline, 1 day old

Elodie, Mama Sidney, and Evangeline

Elodie & Evangeline, 1 day old

For your viewing pleasure: A video of some very skeptical baby goats. For the life of me, I can't get this thing to upload normally, and so... viola. The magic of the facebook at work, ladies and gentlemen!

Rainy Days and Mondays... A Whiny Rant from Farmer Crankenpants

Today has not been my day.

I suffer from insomnia, so I'd only had about 4 hours of sleep before the tsunami of poo, also known as Monday, decided to slap me awake(ish).

The first thing was a phone call, bright and early, from an uncharacteristically chipper gal at the post office. I wouldn't have even picked up, tired as I was, but Scarlet was still home and so she answered, then handed me the phone while I was still 90% unconscious. "Good morning! Your chickens are here!" Awww... what the crap?! I had the chicks' arrival written down on my calender as being slated for Friday. The run that these little guys would be moving in to in the coop hadn't even been set up yet. Oy.

So I drag my buns out of bed. I make myself a ginormous iced coffee. I have about two swigs of it before I get a call from the garden supply company that is delivering the 25 cubic feet (yards? Whatever. A smallish mountain.) of soil that will be going into our new raised beds. The driver is running a touch late - is it ok if he comes in 30 minutes? I say sure, but I have to run to the post office super quick to pick up my box of chickens first. "Your what?" Having to explain interstate chicken delivery to a stranger who seems to have decided, rather hastily, that I'm half batshizz crazy... Just. Not. Helping.

After the call, I threw on some clothes and put a very sad Penny into her kennel, then ran to the post office to pick up my chicks. The only bright spot in my post office jaunt was getting to show a little kid my package o' peepers. The surprise and delight on his face when he saw and heard the chickies going bananas was awesome. It's one of the aspects of farming in the city that I straight-up live for. Watching a kid break into a smile when they see a baby goat go bouncing by, or just after they pull up and take a chomp out of their first bright purple carrot, dirt and all - it makes me so dang happy.

Alas, the happiness was fleeting.

About 30 seconds after I pull into the driveway, the dirt delivery guy shows up. I have a package of shivering, mildly-traumatized poultry that need dealing with, and now this fella who needs my input on where to heap my dirt. I gave him two potential choices - both were rejected. He wanted to dump the dirt a little further into the yard. You got it, chief. Go nuts! I leave him to it, and go to put my peepers in the coop.

I no sooner unpack my peepers than I notice that we have a jailbreak unfolding. The chicks are still small enough that they can get through the holes in the chicken wire, and have wandered into neighboring runs. Crap. I round up my freshly liberated chicks and ponder a plan B.

I slap a temporary home for them together in a galvanized water trough. I stash them in our back room, hopefully securing them by closing the the two doors that separate them from the range of Penny the Huntress, freelance chicken murderer.

Sweet. I have two seconds to sit down and chug my nearly-forgotten cup of coffee. Then I realize that I've nearly forgotten something else that is kinda critical - that I need to show the chicks how to drink their water. It's been so long since we've had baby chicks here that I didn't even remember that chickies don't come with that knowledge. I went to check on my peeps only to find that - yep - these guys and gals were going to need a little help in the drinking department.

Check out the rocket scientist STANDING in the water, just chillin'. 

I'm about to sit down and starting teaching these chicks, one by one, the dip/scoop/tilt-the-head-back drinking method when there is a knock at the door. It's the dirt delivery guy. His truck is stuck. Super.

I go outside to help him find some wood scraps and gravel to throw under his truck tires. In my haste, I fail to secure the front door completely. To Rex, that is an as good as an engraved invitation to take the heck off.  Out-muther-frackin'-standing! Cue the parade of helpful neighbors driving/biking/jogging by who stop to let me know that "Your dog is out!". You don't say! Is that why I have a leash in one hand, a chunk of ham for a bribe in the other, and a completely humorless/borderline apoplectic look on my face? Thanks so much!

To recap, I have - 

a) thirsty, travel-weary chicks who can't drink until I show them how,

b) a d-bag escape artist dog who thinks that my limping down the road after him - IN THE RAIN - is some sort of great sport, 

c) a tiny terror of a dog who is just waiting for her opportunity to devour the thirsty baby chickens the first time I space out and leave a door open,

d) a dump truck in my front yard that is digging some fabulous, giant holes with its slipping and spinning tires and still not going anywhere. 

e) zero point zero percent blood sugar/circulating caffeine in my system.

Can I dig a hole and crawl into it now? 

Finally, finally, the dirt-guy got his truck out, Rex wandered back up to the porch and eventually back into the house, the chickies seem to have settled in a little - drinking lessons are still forthcoming, Penny hasn't visited death upon anyone/anything yet today, and I've made a dent in my great, highly-tragic caffeine deficit. 

Still, I think this will be a PB&Js for dinner kinda night. And woe unto the child who dares complain - WOE UNTO THEM. 

Serenity now!

The Month of May (so far) in Photos

 Scarlet & Sophie

Our piggies, three

Sidney sneaking a nibble of our neighbor's sword ferns

Chardonnay and her twin Doelings

Chardy's baby girls, Bramble (in front) and Dahlia

Coming in for a landing

Busy little fly-girls!

I am very much enjoying both my new camera, and my newly-acquired ability to take a walk up the hill to pay a visit to my critters. 

This has been an incredibly busy month here so far with the two beehives going in, eleven goats being sold, eighteen new raised beds going in the garden, a self-imposed crash-course in turkey husbandry (soon to be followed by the arrival of actual turkey poults!), 21 chicks due to arrive next week, AND spending every spare second researching, planning for and generally freaking out about a new business venture that a friend and I are embarking on. 

With all of the hustle and bustle, it's easy to miss the small things; the miracles and the beauty that we get to live smack in the middle of on our little piece of earth. I'm so thankful for the sweet little camera that Billy bought me for my birthday, so that I can capture a glimpse, now and then, of the amazing critters that we get to share our lives with here. 

Life right now is a little crazy, but it is a lot good. 

Names?

Our blue-eyed beauty needs a name! 

Chardy's doeling and Hop's little wether, half-siblings (and also Aunt/Nephew - goat family trees are kind weird and twisty.) 

We didn't name any of our little goat babies this year, as most of them were destined to move on to new homes. But - we've finally decided which of Chardy's twin girls we're keeping (the little black goat with the big blue eyes), and so she needs a name that is as pretty and vibrant as she is. Scarlet has suggested the name Moulin, which is the French word for "windmill". Heaven knows why, but she's seriously feeling that name. So far, she is the only one to put a potential name in the hopper. I happen to think that this girl deserves a better name than windmill, but I haven't hit upon one just yet. Suggestions?

Just in case it helps, her Mom's name is Chardonnay, her Dad is Buckley, and her siblings are Hop, Barley, Liberty & Hope.

Update: Ladies & Germs - introducing the lovely Miss Bramble. :)

Bottle Feeding a Weak Kid - The Story of Cookie

Cookie was the second born of triplets to Hop, a two year old mini-Lamancha and first time freshener. The buckling that preceded him presented breech, and was stillborn after having been stuck for sometime. Cookie weighed maybe 3 pounds at birth - a petite little thing from the outset. We gave him some colostrum gel, as we do all of our newborns just in case, followed by a couple squirts of nutri-drench straight down the gullet. He seemed small but steady, so we figured that in spite of his rough entry into this world, that his Mama would take care of him and that, eventually, he'd thrive.

Maybe it was because of his extended wait to be born, or because Mama played favorites with her third born buckling, but Cookie simply failed to thrive and grew weaker by inches every day. Hop didn't pay special attention to her weak boy but old maid Auntie Blue would cuddle up to him, and Sidney, our Alpha Alpine, would let any hungry kid nurse whenever, wherever, so we struggled initially with the idea of taking him away from his herd who were clearly doing their level best to foster him, and hedging our bets and bringing him in to be bottle fed. Yesterday afternoon, we finally decided that he needed our intervention, and brought him in from the goat yard in a Tagalongs Girl Scout cookie box. Hence his name.

Finally having picked him up, we saw the he was almost literally skin and bones. If he'd been nursing at all, clearly it hadn't been enough. We mixed up small batches of milk replacer with a shot of nutri-drench in it, and trickled it down his throat. When he pooped twice, we were encouraged that his gut was working, and that the milk was landing in his stomach rather than his lungs, which can happen when a very weak kid is essentially force fed. I toyed with the idea of "tubing" him, since my goat emergency kit came with a weak kid feeding tube set up. I didn't end up doing it, because if you don't know what you're doing (and I don't), you can thread the tube into the trachea rather than the esophagus, and drown the baby with milk.

So we kept him warm and continued to feed him as much as he'd take - usually not more than a half an ounce - and he'd swallow the majority of it by sheer reflex. Every once in a while, he'd muster up enough strength to be slightly combative with me. We also took that as a good sign. He slept fitfully, nestled inside his cookie box, waking at random intervals to utter a few pathetic moans before drifting back into sleep.

He made it through the night. We thought we'd turned a corner.

Come morning, his breathing remained fast and shallow, and he wouldn't take milk like he had the night before. Most of it was just dribbling right back out of his mouth. I called my goat-wise cousin to see if she thought it was time to tube him. She came over within the hour and ran through a checklist of symptoms and potential cures. We'd warmed him up, fed him and kept his bum-bum from pasting up, but it wasn't enough. Before we could try anything else, our little guy just stopped breathing and slipped away. We don't know if he had a congenital issue that rendered him unable to thrive, if he'd caught a bug of some sort that slowly drained his very limited resources, or if he'd just been rejected by his dam, and hadn't ever had a good feeding, and burned through his reserves. We don't know, which is one of the worst things that can happen when you lose livestock. It shatters your peace of mind. I don't know if whatever took him was contagious, and the rest of our herd is in danger of sharing the same fate, or if he would have survived if I would have plucked up the courage to tube him last night.

Live and learn, I guess. The trouble is that I'm not sure that I've learned anything from Cookie's illness and passing. I don't know what I could or should have done differently or better. Maybe there wasn't anything I could do, and that is the lesson?

The New Kids of Goatlandia

Hop's babies -

 Little Girl

 Baby Boy

Hop's little buckling. He's a spirited little dude!

Hop's boy, Hop, Chardonnay & Valentina. We think that Teeny may have 3 or 4 babies on board!

Liberty's Babies -

Baby Boy (in back), Baby Girl (in front)

Little Man (in the foreground), Little Girl (in back)

Sidney's Kids-

 Sidney and her buckling

Sid being hounded by her twins and one of Liberty's kids.

"Helllppp Meeeeee!"

Sophie's Kids -

Soph's boy

Sophie's big girl with Hop's little girl

A Heap o' napping Kids :)

The Frets of a Feeble Farmer

Our herd of nine goats - 5 mini-Lamancha does, 1 mini-mancha buck, 1 Nigerian Dwarf doe and 2 Alpine does - has had me hand-wringing worried as of late.

Let me digress a tad. Because of the state of my knees, I can't make the walk to the upper pasture and back, especially in mud season. So I haven't been up to visit my babies in a long while, and it really, really sucks. I miss these sweet faces!

Valentina, Blue & Chardonnay, February 2012

So the daily visitor to Goatlandia for the past 9-months-plus has been Bill, exclusively. And the goaties love their Papa.

The daily love-in/treat shakedown.

In fact, they even know the sound of Billy's truck pulling into the driveway and start bleating to beat the band when they think Pops is home and headed their way with chow. He does right by them and they love him for it. 

Alas, Billy is a dude. 

Now, at the risk of coming across as some sexist Neaderthal, I'll attempt to explain how this hinders him ever so slightly as a goatherd. He takes amazing care of our guy and gals, but as a fella himself, lacks that sixth sense about babies and critters that I feel is inextricably tied to the X chromosome. It's a nurturing/intuition/mothering thing that goes bone-deep. I don't know how to explain it really, but I know when something is a little off with one of my goats (or dogs, or hens), even when they're "fine". It's a skill that I unfortunately have not been able to translate to the world of plants and my garden is living (half-dead) proof. I can also usually tell by one means or another if and when my girls are pregnant. Unfortunately, since I haven't had a face-to-face with my gals in a while, and can only see them from a distance out the window, I have no idea whatsoever who might or might not be pregnant, and I'm worried. In fact, I don't know whether anyone is pregnant so we might be looking at a very dry year.

This past Fall and Winter we finally found a profitable way to use our goat milk in soapmaking. There are a lot of very talented craftspeople and artisanal products made and sold here in Olympia, including a good number of small-batch soaps, but our beautiful, organic goat milk was the ingredient in ours that set us apart. In fact, we sold out of it! And now that we have a product that sells and have begun to build a knowledge base about making and marketing it, we're looking at the possibility of not having our magic ingredient available to us for drinking, cheesemaking, soapmaking or as a protein-rich food for the hogs that we'll soon have. The loss of it would be pretty major for us.

I started wondering if Buckley, our lone buck, did, in fact, have "the goods" or not. Billy and I talked about what our next steps would be if it turned out that Buckley was sterile. Our only viable option would be to cull him. Neither of us were looking forward to that possibility.

Well, a reprieve came in my inbox yesterday in the form of an email from my friend, B. The mini Lamancha does that she bought from us last year, and boarded here for a few weeks this Summer, were both successfully bred by none other than Buckley himself. Fritzen delivered healthy twin girls yesterday, Blackey & Wobble.

Wobble is the tan gal in front, and Blackey is the girl way in back. The mini-Lamancha breed is achieved by crossing a standard Lamancha with a Nigerian Dwarf. Blackey somehow ended up with tons of the Nigerian traits, including her long ears and frosted nose. My more experienced fellow goat ladies tell me that long ears can occur about as often in mini-Mancha kids as blue eyes can, as much as 25% of the time. But this is the first long eared baby mini-Mancha that we've had, out of 10 born. 

B says that her cry is even different sounding - loud and whiny like a Nigerian. Genetics are fascinating!

B's other doe, Oreo, is due any day. :)

Anyway - there is hope yet that at least one of our eight lovely ladies may give us babies and milk this year. I think I'm just going to have to bite the bullet and truck my tushie on up the hill, wonky knee and all, and give my girls a thorough once-over to see who, if anyone, might be in the family way. I think that Bill had pretty much resigned himself to the fact that we wouldn't be milking anybody this year when B's email came. Now he's worried that we could end up with babies and milk times eight!

Aye, chihuahua. 

In the event that rampant fecundity ends up being the way that this all shakes out, this year Bill won't be alone in caring for our girls. I'm getting a brand spankin' new knee next week, and after a month or two (or three) of rehab and therapy, I'll hopefully be able to get right back in the trenches! I suspect that I may actually be the first person on earth who looks forward to mucking out a chicken coop or cleaning birth goo off of a newborn goat, but I do. I totally do. 

Farm chick Chelle will shortly be back in the saddle again. :)

A Lucky Penny

Just when I think we can't squeak one more critter onto this little farm, I accidentally fall in love with one and we end up doing it anyway. Meet our newest baby, sweet & spunky Miss Penny -

You see what I was up against? I was dropping Livy off at her boyfriend's house, when Penny, (who along with her brother, was being fostered by Liv's fella's Mom) came to say hello, her curly tail wagging so furiously that her whole booty was moving. I picked her up to say hello and was bathed in sweet puppy kisses and, well, it was love at first smooch. We were able to adopt her just 3 weeks later, which kinda sorta felt like an eternity, waiting for your baby to come home.

Today was her third day in la casa de Jackson. It's going pretty well. We have had mixed success with the potty pads. She'll pee on them a little more than 50% of the time, but won't use them for poo at all. No, she prefers to take care of that business in the hallway.

Being that she's only about 10 or 11 weeks old, that's not really that bad, but we definitely still have some work ahead of us. I honestly never thought I'd do puppydom ever again, but it seems cupid had other ideas, and so here we are.

There have been a few minor bumps, mostly in trying to integrate Penny & Rex. A 75-pound dog and a 3-pound dog don't mix so well immediately. He's wanting to play with her, and she very rightly is slightly intimidated by the lumbering, happy-go-lucky giant. He keeps wolfing down her puppy food, which has not earned him a ton of goodwill from Penny, but they seem to be ok, if a little leery of/intimidated by one another.

Big Boy meets Bitty Baby.

We're needing to be a little extra vigilant ourselves, as we're used to frequently stepping over an enormous, bright white pooch who's pretty hard to miss. Now we have a teeny, tan (same as our carpet) fluffy shadow that follows us everywhere 24/7. I live in fear of somebody stepping on her. :-\

In spite of the minor chaos that adding Penny-pie has created, we're all already crazy in love with her. She is a world-class snuggler who emits a surprising amount of body heat for her size. I challenge anyone to sit down with a snoozy Penster and a lap quilt and try to stay awake for more than 10 minutes. It cannot be done!

Between Penny's sweet and spunky personality, and Rexy's protective lovebug-thing, I feel about as lucky a pup Mama as you can get. Now - If I so much as talk about adding another pooch to the brood (besides fostering) you have my blessing to turn me in to Hoarders: Farm Nerd Edition.

This may or may not be the right time to mention that we'll shortly be in the market for some piglets...

Meat Birds

Today I, along with my fellow farm nerdess, Lisa, finally decided on a breed of meat chickens to order. We're going to go with the highly recommended Freedom Rangers.

According to what I've read and what we've heard from folks in the know, Freedom Rangers have many of the benefits of the Cornish cross (an F1 hybrid bird produced by breeding an Indian Game {also known as a "Cornish Game"} with a Plymouth Rock) - rapid growth, good feed/weight conversions - without many of the drawbacks associated with the ultra fast growing Cornish X's - leg deformity, organ failure, skin splitting and poor foraging/self preservation instincts.

We considered trying "slow birds" (more traditional meat varieties, such as Plymouth Rocks and Delawares) to avoid the pitfalls of the Cornish cross. But then, you end up with a smaller bird that takes at least a good month more to grow. That's money and time that could be saved!

And so, we kept coming back to the Freedom Rangers. They sound like the best of both worlds - quick turnaround and great flavor, minus the scary health issues. No franken-chickens for us, thanks.

I'll be interested to see if they really do live up to their glowing reputation. For better or worse, I should have an answer to share with you on the matter by the first week of December, at the latest.

The Chicken Whisperer Chump

You all know by know that this is house is Casa de Nerd, right? We're nerds in the conventional sense - we're all rather socially awkward and covet and hoard books like they were bars of gold - but we're also farm nerds. We're the kind of goobers that do things like hang around in the poultry barn at the county fair ogling exotic ducks and chickens, or who relentlessly pick the brain of the poor lady selling goat cheese at the farmers market. What kind of goats do you have? How long do you leave your feta in the brine? Are your goats fed pasture or pellets? We collectively, can be a little intense.

We were budding farm nerds even when we still lived in city limits. Expanding our geek horizons was part of what lead us down this path to buying our 3 1/2 green acres. We wanted more chickens, turkeys, and maybe something with hooves, the more exotic, the better. Olivia with her Asperger Syndrome's signature laser-like focus on a narrow, often obscure topic, was the queen nerd when it came to birds, especially chickens. She literally memorized field guides and encyclopedias about all things bird, and coveted, above all things, fancy chickens.

So, when we moved to Boggy Hollow, one of the first items on our farm checklist was to greatly expand our flock of chickens. We pored over books, the Murray McMurray catalog, and asked our 10-year old resident bird nerd to weigh in. We decided on a mixture of some of the lower-maintenance, high-yield breeds like Australorps and Ameracaunas, with a couple of silver laced Polishes thrown in to appease Liv's appetite for fancy birds.

The workhorse breeds thrived. They started laying right on time, and most of them even laid through the winter. The Polishes... we're down to two.

We've done a little experimental breeding to see what we could see, and ended up with a goofy little fancy-pants brood of babies that we call the "Policaunas". Crested, jet-black hens that lay pale, pale blue eggs. And half of them are frizzled. Pretty funky! Still, Liv longed for the truly fancy birds; Suramas, Brahmas, Silkies, Silver Spangled Hamburgs, the fluffier, more feather-footed and floppily-crested, the better. Explaining to her that only no-nonsense chickens would work on a farm such as ours fell on deaf ears. Repeatedly.

So we finally gave in, a little.

Today I brought home 5 chicks from the feed store - 2 light Brahmas, 2 Silkies and one that we *think* is a white Ameracauna. Liv was on cloud nine.



With the altogether too fresh memory of our last clutch of incubator chicks' poop-funk smell permeating my back room, I sought an alternative way to brood this small clutch without sacrificing our indoor air quality. We decided to try a method that I'd heard of other folks doing with great success - sneaking days old chicks under a broody hen while she slept. Easy-peasy!

Not exactly.

Bill put our notoriously broody girl, Huckleberry in a separate run just before nightfall and set up a heat lamp as insurance in case the transfer didn't go so well. Then about an hour after dark, I went out to slide the babies under Hucky.

Huck, unfortunately woke and began wandering around in a daze. She sat on the babies a few times, whether or not by complete accident, I can't say. When I tried to pop an errant chick back underneath her, she rattle-clucked at me, which is a good indication that she is feeling protective of her nest. I watched them as unobtrusively as I could from outside the run. Things seemed to be going ok, when one of the Brahmas popped out from under Huckleberry and sat right next to her head, wailing out a panic peep that got the attention of every bird in the coop. Huckleberry gave the little one a few rather vicious looking pecks, and the complainer turned tail and burrowed back under Huck's breast. I'm assuming that she's going to be a no-nonsense, spare the rod, spoil the child-type of Mama, and not an annoyed biddy who will have run all of the babies off by morning. I'll be checking on them every few hours tonight as quickly and quietly as I can, just to make sure that no one is being picked on or left out in the cold. I'm already worried about the little black silkie. He's just a little too floppy for my liking. Hopefully some time sandwiched between his reluctant new Mama's breast and a bed of fresh straw will perk him right up. Morning is going to be make or break time for this little experiment in avian foster parenting.

The things that we do for our kids... just keep getting weirder.

Embracing

My girls don't care about their hair. At 12 and almost 9 years, this separates them from many of their peers, and not in a good way. They really just can't be bothered to give a shit about it, which is both liberating and frustrating to me as their Mom.

It can be awkward, feeling like you have one foot in two worlds - simple, messy, homey farm life, and presentable, punctual, social "city life". I feel 100% comfortable wearing a tattered dress, muck boots and a sloppy pony tail in my front yard, but if I'm called suddenly to pick a sick kid up from school and have to venture out dressed in my farm shlubbery, I am beyond ashamed. I feel like I have to explain to every passerby that I don't really dress like this, but that I was just wrangling errant chickens back into their yard or turning a compost pile, all for the greater good of humanity. Why do I feel the need to explain myself? I know that the core choices in my life are right for me and mine, so why do I feel like I should apologize for not being what people have come to expect? Why can't I be more like my kids?

When I find myself worrying about how the girls are perceived by their classmates and friends, or by what passing strangers on the street may think of me and my parenting based upon my kids' funky attire and awkward yet bubbly social exchanges, I try to slow down and remind myself -

My kids climb trees.

My kids can milk a goat, catch a chicken and drive a nail.

My kids know that bacon was once a pig.

My kids can describe in graphic detail the complete life cycle of a chicken, rabbit or goat.

My kids catch salamanders and butterflies.

My kids would rather go to the County Fair than a Justin Bieber concert.

My kids get excited about rainbow colored carrots.

My kids love telling other kids about our animals.

My kids can drive a tractor!

My kids can identify birds by their calls and songs.

My kids don't know a thing about American Idol, the Twilight series or Jersey Shore.

My kids are proud of our life.

These girls are teaching me a lot about embracing what matters to you and satisfies your soul, and letting the rest of the world's BS fall away. I have a lot to learn from these monkeys.

Our Swiss Misses

Our new girls, Sophie & Sydney, both bred Alpines.

These little gals joined our herd absolutely seamlessly, almost 2 weeks ago now. They are the sweetest little ladies!


Yo.

Being used to having Lamanchas here, it's kinda weird to have goats with ears, especially those ears. :)

S & S were bred to an Oberhasli buck (another variety of Alpine dairy goat) and are due to kid in May. We've never had three milkers at once, let alone full-sized milkers. We're looking down the barrel of a full-fledged dairypalooza over here.



And I could not be more excited!

More Mamas on the Way

Through one of the most annoyingly persistent and bitterly cold Winters that we've had in a long time around here, my hard-working hubby finally finished fencing our back pasture. It was no small task! Being able to turn the goats out of their pens and into the larger pasture now means - less money spent on feed, the goaties get to frolic and exercise more than they did in their pens, and we're getting more goats!

As I've mentioned previously, my cousin is looking to get out of the goat raising business, and so is bringing her two favorite bred does to live with us for the foreseeable future. They are Alpines, which is a full sized breed, and are significantly bigger than the minis that we've cut our teeth on. This is the big leagues!

Alpines are French/Swiss in origin, and are one of the most popular dairy goats in the United States. They make great milk, and a LOT of it. They're also just great little critters all around, as I'm learning in my crash course on the Alpine breed. Dairy Goat Journal puts it nicely -

"Alpines are a versatile utility animal. Great milkers for both home and commercial dairies, Alpines produce a high volume of milk. They have the ability to produce over a period of one to three years between freshenings or milk through. This produces valuable year round milk and reduces cost by not breeding every year. Alpine milk has a high cheese yield because of good butterfat and protein content. They produce well on pasture or in dry-lotted hay fed conditions. They are known for being exceptionally hardy, curious, and friendly."

All good things! Our only concern is that they might be a little rough on our smaller goats, but we have the option of separating them if that is the case. No bullies allowed on this farm!

More goats, more babies, more milk = crazy exciting times in the Hollow. :)

The Difference Between Success and Failure...

...is a dishcloth. Well, it was for me, anyway.

Ten days ago I started an incubator full of eggs that the hens had laid in weird little hidey holes here and there in their yard. Whenever I find an egg "out of bounds", whether it be just one or a whole clutch, I always either compost them or incubate them. The last thing I want one of our friends or customers to crack open is an egg that has already started down the path to chickenhood. Been there. *shivers*

So, though we didn't need this brood of babies, we figured that we might as well incubate them, what with Spring coming, supposedly, and maybe sell a few, keep a few. 'Twas not to be.

I started the incubator in our back room, which is unheated. It is the same place that I start all of my seeds on their heat mats and under grow lights. It's basically like a greenhouse that is connected to my spare room.

Well, the seeds don't mind the cool so much, but my poor little incubator just could not get up to temp. I upped it by little smidges each day, trying to get to the magic 99.5 degrees, but never going higher than 90. I maxed out the "increase" switch without ever reaching temperature. I knew that this wasn't great, but what else could I do to increase the heat?

I considered a heating pad. Nah, For one thing it had auto shutoff, so the temp wouldn't stabilize anyway, and for another, I was too scared that it would go bananas and somehow burn my house down. For a lack of better ideas, I threw a kitchen towel over the top of the incubator, hoping that that little 1/32" thickness of cloth would insulate my little foam box just enough to hit the 99.5 degree mark. Boy did I underestimate that towel!

I checked the eggs later that evening, and upon removing the top of the incubator was greeted with a hot blast of sulphery/chicken poopy smelling air. OH NO.

The temp on the thermometer was at 120 degrees! 101 degrees is theoretically enough to kill a chicken embryo. There was no doubt, these little eggies were toast.

I removed them from the incubator with a great deal of care, lest I drop one or smack a few together and create a noxious cloud of superfunk. Bill carried them ever-so-carefully to the compost bin, and I was left with a smelly, empty, fireball-hot incubator. :(

And so I'm bummed. Poor eggs. The only potential silver lining here is that only about 1/4 of the eggs that I candled had shown any signs of development at any point anyway, so many of them may have been duds from the start. Maybe they weren't fertile in the first place? That would be hard to imagine with the way King Kong has been, err... "patronizing" his ladies lately. Maybe they got too cold out in the chicken yard before they were found? We've had a lot of weird cold snaps since mid-January, jammed in right next to beautiful sunny days. It's the devil's potpourri, this Winter weather of ours. Or maybe, I just straight up murdered 42 potential little fluff balls with my kitchen towel and a heaping helping of stupid.

Next time, I'll preheat the incubator to find the perfect temp before adding my eggy babies. And yes, I will be using my kitchen towel turned insulation WITH EXTREME CAUTION.

Introducing...

Liberty & Hope!



And congratulations to Sue on winning the auction and giving these little girls such beautiful an hopeful names!

The gift of her donation to Heifer International will most certainly mean hope and liberty to the family who receives it. Your generosity and support are endless and inspiring to me. Thanks, friends. :)

xxoo
Chelle

Name these babies!

Chardonnay's little girls are three days old, but they still don't have names! So, here's what we've settled on - a naming auction.


Hello, world!

The highest bidder will get to choose the babies names, with 100% of the auction's proceeds going to Heifer International, an organization who's goal is to end hunger and abject poverty by giving families in developing countries livestock to help supplement their diet and family income. (Read more about Heifer's works here.)

This auction will be occurring on this blog, as well as on my personal Facebook page, with regular updates about top bidders and name choices. So get creative and bust out those checkbooks people! FYI - It costs $120 to donate a goat to a family in need, therefore $120+ is our goal! And fear not for these babies' fate. They will either remain with our herd or be sold as milkers to another family. They will, God willing, have a long, productive, happy life as someones family milker. :)

I'll start the bidding at $20 for Snowdrop & Blossom. :) I'll keep the naming auction going through Valentines day. Payment for a winning bid may be made directly to Heifer (on your honor), or to me, which will in turn be sent directly to Heifer (on my honor).

Now - go bananas in the comments! Lets give these happy lassies some great names! :)))


Proud Mama Chardy and her wee ones

Babies!

Chardy delivered her babies just about an hour and a half ago now - two beautiful little tiny blue-eyed doelings!





Mama and babies are doing just fine. Chardy, as always was a trouper. She is the easiest birthing Mama ever!

This is the second time Chard has had babies since she came to our little farm, and I have been lucky enough to be present at both births. Not all critters welcome human "helpers" during labor, but Chardonnay not only doesn't seem to mind it, I get the feeling that she waits to go into labor until I'm there with her.

I knew she was going to go soon, though we had no idea when she was bred (oops!) so we couldn't count the days to help narrow down her estimated due date. Yesterday I spent some time "up top" with the ladies. I don't know how else to explain how I knew that she was about to begin labor other than to say that she gave me a sort of vibe that said "Stay close, Mama. I need you."

So I fed her up good last night, and Rex and I went to peek on her late in the evening, with no signs of active labor to be found.

This morning I got up, and thought - I need to get my butt up to the goat house! I dressed, grabbed an old towel, my birthing kit, camera, phone and a bag of hot dog buns.

When I first got up there, things seemed completely normal. I fed the girls the bread, giving Chard a little extra, figuring that a carbo-load couldn't hurt right before birthing. I grabbed my folding camp chair and had my daughters turn the other does out to graze so that Chardy could have a little peace and quiet. At this point she went into the manger and laid down. This was the first indication that she was, in fact in labor. Up to this point, it had just been my gut telling me that I needed to sit with her and watch her a little. The bond between a farmer and their animals is amazing!

Things progressed rapidly from there. Chardy only labored for about 20 minutes before delivering her babes. (I will post video over on The Bog Blog later today for those of you who'd like to see the full monty. ;) )

The little girls both have Mama's blue eyes, and both are getting around a little already, slowly but surely.

I've given both babies some colostrum gel and some goat drench to get their blood sugar up and their rumens going. Last I saw, they were in the neighborhood of Mama Goat's udders, but couldn't quite figure out how to connect the dots. I'll be checking on them hourly, just to make sure no one gets rejected or goes hungry.

Oh, what a way to start a morning. I'm so exhausted from helping and tidying up after, that I feel like I gave birth today.

Goat Granny needs a shower and a nap - stat!

My New Gig

And that would be as a freelance amateur goat gynecologist. Which is, of course, every bit as glamorous as it sounds. ;)

As I'd mentioned in a previous post, I was called to the home of my friend, B, to check on Fritzen's potential pregnancy, and to bring Miss Oreo back to the ol' ranch for a romantic rendezvous with our yearling buck, Barley.

In addition to checking on the fertility of B's does, I did a little look-see at my own goatie girls today.

Chardonnay is the one who is most obviously pregnant. Beyond being uncharacteristically girthy, she has recently started to bag up a bit. She's also got the floppy tail and the bulging bum-bum that tell me that she's probably within two weeks of kidding, give or take. Last year she kidded on February 10th and had beautiful twins, a boy & a girl.

Blue. Miss Blue has me wonderin'. Bill is 100% convinced that she's quite preggo, but I'm still not there yet. I'm... maybe 80% sure. She's as big as a house, but she tends toward the chunky end of the spectrum anyway. I think that I might have seen some fetal movement on her left flank today, but I just don't know. Her lady business is all poker face. No bulging, not in heat, no clues at all to what's going on in her generous little low-riding belly. Blue last kidded in November 2010, delivering a single sassy little buckling, Blackjack.

Hop (Chardy's yearling doe) is definitely not pregnant. She has somehow successfully managed to avoid her frisky brothers' many attempts to deflower her. Good girl.

Valentina ("Teeny", Fritzen's yearling doe) is also definitely not pregnant, but is very much in heat. I find it fascinating that she and her twin, Oreo, who have been separated by a few miles for going on two months now are still so synced-up, cycle-wise. We are debating on whether or not to breed her to Barley, her half-brother. We would only do so if we intended to harvest her kids, as we wouldn't want a line of inbreeding and re-inbreeding goats. We're not sure that we're up to harvesting a kid. That, in addition to the fact that we will, with my cousin's Alpine does joining our flock, have at least 3 mommies in milk has us leaning towards letting Teeny girl grow for another year before breeding her.

And so that's the scoop. We should be seeing the sproing! of little hooves shortly, but exactly when, no one knows. You know I'll keep you apprised. ;)


Chardonnay in her signature "head shot". Apparently my camera strap is delicious every time!


The unsinkable Auntie Blue with young Miss Hop


Fritzen and her daughters, Teeny & Oreo

Pikshurs of my Baybeez

Sorry, I get all mushy like that when it comes to the little ones. Also, I've been spending maybe a little too much time on the Corel PaintShop software that came with my camera, tinkering with pics of the babies. For your viewing pleasure-


One of the babies (a hen, we think) from the clutch hatched on 10/1/11. Mama was a red/brown Ameracauna and Papa was a White Crested Black Polish Frizzle. We are tentatively calling this mix "Policauna". ;)


I want to go outside, but I'm a little chicken. (BWAHAHA!)


A non-frizzled Policauna. This little dude/dudette is always very curious about visitors.


My Oreo-girl snuggling up to her Mama, Fritzen. It will be hard to see Fritzy move on to her new home, but I know that they are going to treat her like a queen.


Sisters :)