Take Joy!

Feeding Time, Again

"If I get on Uncle William's back, I'll be closer to the hay!"

A typical scene at the feed trough . . . (though Valentine—in the background—is usually not in evidence, since she stands between William's front legs to eat)

Saturday's Main Event

. . . feeding Valentine, of course!

On the lap is better, under the watchful eye of William—it looks as if she's nibbling on Uncle William's ear, doesn't it?

This is one of the reasons we always wear old clothes in the goat lot. (The other is that Jesse has a tendency to chew holes in the back of one's shirt while one's attention is elsewhere.)

Goat treats for Uncle William. Frank was eating, too, but he wandered off; everyone else circled around like vultures, but declined to descend and eat. Maybe next time.

Feeding Time!

Here we have John feeding (or, in one case, attempting to feed) small orphaned goats.

Valentine loves her bottle! She still has to be caught, but once in hand, she drinks and rubs her head against John's coat, and acts as if goat milk replacer (which smells really odd, by the way) is just the greatest thing in the world!

Bootsy, on the other hand, wants nothing whatsoever to do with drinking from any old bottle—here he is in a typical pose, mouth firmly clamped shut. (His other common pose is mouth wide open and yelling bloody murder.)

He'll drink a little bit, but not much, and he doesn't look at all happy about it, does he?

Maybe we need to remind him that Valentine is drinking her milk, and she will grow up to be a big strong goat and if he doesn't drink his, he will be small and puny and unable to annoy other goats with any success . . .

Annabelle

Annabelle has left us—we aren't sure whether she ate something poison, or perhaps got hold of a piece of plastic or something, or what . . . Bootsy and Valentine are already eating hay and grain and leaves, thank heaven, so we only have to bottle feed them a couple of times a day. She's taken handily to the bottle; he's not interested, he just doesn't want to be caught and held, but he'll drink some. I think he's pining for Mom more than she is—he was always following her closely, while Valentine was usually off with Junior.

John wrote this last night:

Tiny brown gray goat, you asked only for food, shelter and water. Just to be a goat.

You cared for your young ones as small goats have done for many thousands of years.

Calling to them and feeding them when they were hungry. Snuggling up close to keep them warm.

I tried to help but all I did when you fell ill was of no help. I could only do what I knew to do.

When I saw you were suffering I went down to end your pain. The others circled behind me.

William the great sheep came and stood beside me. For he, too, saw there was nothing I could do.

I told him, "William, my friend, I know nothing else to do." He was your honor guard.

He stood by me when the Model 10 cracked its bark of death and never flinched. Just walked away.

Someday when my time is done, might I have an honor guard as good as this.

Then, perhaps, I will see a small brown gray goat standing at the gate waiting for a hand of grain.

 

The fools today do not understand the meaning in the Celtic poem from over 2000 years ago.

                Bury me at night, in the fields, beneath the stars.

                Amongst my herds, my unseeing eyes.

The small creatures are without deceit and guile. They never betray you.

They only ask to be what they are. Oh, can we not see that man is the lesser creature?

The great flawed one; only the small creatures had no fault found in them.

Yes, Grandmothers as you look across the void, at this one, the sum of you all, know that you taught me well. The old ways are true ways.

I will shed a tear for a small brown gray goat each time I walk to the gate.

All in a Day's Work

Junior, Thor and Nicholas at the ol' watering hole . . .

Resting after lunch, down the hill among the leaves:  Lucy (that's Rosita hiding behind her), Fig, Nicholas, and Daisy.

Isn't it about time for a little bit of something? Daisy, Rosita (who usually won't stand still long enough to be photographed!), and Frank the Fat.

Waiting for supper:  Thor in the hayrack, Eddie, the Butt of Nicholas, Bella, and Zeekie.

The Last of the Baby Goats

Annabelle's babies finally came out—here are brown billy Bootsy (not named after the immortally funky Bootsy Collins) and black nanny Valentine. One week old!

Little Goats, and Other Stuff

It was nice and warm (well, relatively speaking; this is January, after all!) yesterday, so I went down to help feed/water/gather eggs, and saw this:

While the big goats (and William, of course) were eating, where were the little goats? Why, under the feed trough, nice and cozy!  I don't see how they all got under there, but they did.

Some people, though, had little tolerance for me and my camera . . .

Come, children, let's just go away from the crazy woman and her camera!

Other doings yesterday: We went to Lowe's to get a replacement drain-opening-thing for the bathtub, some thistle seed, and a small birdfeeder to hand in the grape arbor. Also purchased, though not on the original list, were a bleeding heart and some lilies of the valley for the rock garden and a couple of new daylily plants. Then to Barnes & Noble for a circus book to send Eliza along with her clown costume. We settled on a copy of Dr. Seuss' s If I Ran The Circus; I'm not a big Seuss fan (yes, I know—heresy!), but his earlier books are nice. Also bought the new Art Doll Quarterly—which I haven't had time to sit down and look at yet—and a book for Emma, Seven Chinese Sisters, the latest Fine Cooking for me, American Archaeology for John, and another book that he wanted. (I was looking for the new Quilting Arts, but it wasn't out yet . . . my book-and-magazine consumption has to diminish. I've pretty much stopped buying Somerset Studio and all its attendant magazines, because they're always just more of the same. Now I think I'll not buy any more Belle Armoire or Cloth Paper Scissors, either, for the same reasons. The past few issues have been mostly more of the same, and it's too off-the-wall for me lately; and all too many articles seem to be along the lines of "here's this project that will require you to buy new product X, and will produce something not useful for anything" . . . not that there's anything wrong with art for art's sake, but I'm just tired of that. I want to sew, and to make simpler things, so I'm going back to my old patterns and magazines—I was up in the attic the other day, hauling down the drying rack, and came across two elderly cardboard file boxes full of doll and toy patterns from the 80's (mostly); some were Mom's and some were mine, and I'd forgotten about them . . . so I went to Hancock for pattern boxes, and am planning to spend a happy afternoon sorting someday soon.

Oh—I also picked up a copy of Mary Engelbreit's Home Companion (my favorite guilty pleasure—I could never live in a house like those, not with all these cats and my general disorderliness, but I love to look at other people's). There's a pattern for cloth ballet flats that I'm thinking some small girls of my acquaintance might like . . . seeing as how 2008 is going to be The Year I Use Up Some of The Stash. . . maybe.

Now, Chinese New Year is February 7 this year, and it's the Year of the Rat; does anyone know where I might find a stuffed rat pattern?

There is no joy in the goat lot tonight . . .

The man with the banding gun has visited, and left unhappy little billy goats in his wake.

Actually, that was John and Roger, who came over to help him catch billies. I'm just not quick enough; my creaky knees are no match for four little goat legs! All four are duly caught and banded, and are billy goats no more (for those of you who are unacquainted with banding, it involves heavy rubber-type-bands and the private parts of small billy goats). They were highly uncomfortable this afternoon, and very vocal about it, but by tomorrow they will be fine. (I am basing this on my experience with Frank and Jesse last year. Yes, it's uncomfortable for them, but it must be done. There is a definite limit to the number of big billy goats you want in your back yard—like none, most of the time.) Besides, they have other things to be annoyed about—while John and Roger were down there, they took the big limb off the shed roof, so there is nowhere interesting to climb now. They also caught Rosita, who had escaped from the lot in all the excitement, and wasn't happy at all to find herself out in the world and away from all the other goats!

We're just killjoys, I guess. We never let them do anything . . .

Here are some pictures I took yesterday of Thor and Nicholas, after I'd given the goats some old bread:
This is MY bread, and don't you even think of trying to take it . . .

Unfortunately, no one else would stay still long enough for a picture. Next time it's warm enough to go out, I'll try again. (And I hope it's soon; now that I feel fairly good again, I am suffering from severe cabin fever. I need to get out in the yard and DO something, even if it's nothing more than picking up some trash.)

For now, though, I am going to adjourn to my chair by the stove: it's about twenty degrees outside, with a good stiff wind, and it's chilly over here in my corner. Too cool to work on the clown costume, which is what I should be doing, so I think I'll go get a cup of chai and the pile of seed catalogs; we need to get our order out this weekend.

Three Little Goats and a Bucket

Nicholas; Junior and Rosita; and Junior braving the bucket alone, but for a misplaced guinea . . .

Junior

With Mamma Zeekie

It itches!

With Thor, exploring (otherwise known as "trying to get into a place from which we will have to be forcibly extricated, accompanied by much noise")