The Tagging.

It was August 9th. I'd planned on taking the day off to spend time with my buddies. My buddies travel light, and they're fun to have around. One travels with a holster, and the other with a hip flask. My name is Cha. Cha Cha. They don't advertise for dicks in the newspaper. That was my profession. Ex-Mouser. Ex-birder. Ex-killer. I'm a private eye, says so on my door. If business was as good as my aim, I'd be on Easy Street. Instead, I've got an office on 49th Street and a nasty relationship with a string of collection agents.The humidity was high like a hippy after a dead show. Hotter than asphalt in the city, I was sleeping off a doozy of a hangover when suddenly my door swung open and in walked trouble. Brunette, as usual.
The last thing I wanted was a case, but the dame was hysterical, like dames usually are. What she need me for was unclear but the dame was persuasive. I had a hunch I'd be sorry I asked. I took her cross town to the crime scene and it became clear as smog over Las Angeles.
The perps were still there. I knew them. Four crazy broads with boobs like Pamela Anderson and attitudes like Mike Tyson. They trashed the place. The prize: oat crack. Their hunger was like piranha feeding on a goat dipped in the amazon with a paper cut. The broads had broke down the door to where the dame kept her crack and were now caught red handed. This gang had a history of petty theft and over eating but this was the first time I'd seen them escalate to violence.
Frannie, Daisy, and Gwen weren't talking. The ringleader Buella had got to them first since closing the mouths of those broads would have taken some work. I knew why I was brought in. The dame wanted answers. This was a puzzle with two pieces.
Gwen, the newest gang member broke first. Blathering on about her innocence and her attempted to stop the other three, her teeth marks on the wall proved otherwise. She may not have been smart enough to get further in the parlor than the ramp, but she did her share of damage.
My job was done here. The dame ask me in for coffee and to stay awhile. I asked for bourbon. I didn't know how long we'd have together... but who does?


Pictures available on Facebook :)
A many thanks to Bill Watterson and Hampton Fancher for quotes, inspiration and laughter.

Our little Gammas...

"Alpha children wear grey. They work much harder than we do, because they're so frightfully clever. I'm awfully glad I'm a Beta, because I don't work so hard. And then we are much better than the Gammas and Deltas. Gammas are stupid. They all wear green, and Delta children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta children. And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able to read or write. Besides they wear black, which is such a beastly color. I'm so glad I'm a Beta." Aldous Huxley

Goats are rich with personality. Ranging from sweet and loving to flat out obnoxious, the goat has mood swings and temperamental attitudes not unlike many males I know (heh heh). Wheyward now has acquired a plethora of personalities and levels of intelligence.
Having spent time amongst the moms and kids, it is surprisingly indicative of certain breeds that we can determine a level of intelligence. Queen of Wheyward has stated a fondness to the LaManchas, equating this with their personalities-they are more clever and generally more interesting, regardless of their odd and velociraptor-like look. They are the best uddered goats, producing the most milk on the farm and are generally Wheywards most easy going ladies.
The beauties on the farm are our Nubians. Gorgeous and cute with their floppy ears and sweet, loving attitudes they are like the super models of Wheyward. All looks but little substance. They are the ones that catch your eye and make visitors go "ahhhh". They are however, simply not that bright. Sweet: yes. Uber cute: yes. Good udders: no. Good milk producers: no. Not really. Fingers are crossed for some of our babies to grow up and prove us wrong about the Nubians: that they aren't just pretty little airheads.
So far what the LaMancha are producing daily per goat is over a gallon per doe .... our Nubians, only a cup.
To be fair, the LaManchas can be bullies. They have moments where their behavior can elicit the humans to swear like longshoremen. But dang, they give out milk!
Today, the main herd was let loose on pasture, the sun was shining and the temperature warm. There are two new Nubies on the farm (can't say Whey aren't trying to give them a chance, right?). Small, timid and are low girls on the goat totem, we tethered them out in a separate field to hopefully fatten up on fresh grass. Oh, little Strawberry and Speck (not their real names) took forever to relax on leash and then would barely eat-perhaps they are watching their weight-basically they worked on their tan and sunned themselves while occasionally crying out at the human nearby trying to garden in peace.
Louise, the chosen LaMancha and overall favored goat, would never cry about being separated out from the herd to eat fresh grass. She understands that while that petunia planted would be incredibly tasty, she refrains (well..after a very long discussion that while smarty pants she is, we humans are a wee smarter and a leash only so long).

An unpleasant task

Today began the rather distasteful, odorous task of dehorning the new babies. Four down, ten to go.

There are a variety of ways to dehorn an animal, however none are particularly pleasant. Wheywards method is the quickest and hopefully the least painful and least barbaric.

Let me first describe the methods we do not do:

Caustic Paste: Seriously, not an option that would be considered by anyone that has been around children of any species-try dabbing peanut butter on a two year old child and then tell them to be careful, don't touch it and leave it there..come back in 30 minutes and look at all the places the peanut butter is but not where you put it. Right. Cuz baby goats listen as well as human kids. Right.

Rubber bands: Not effective and often leave deformed horns. However, very effective on testicles. But we'll talk about that later.

Sawing: Who's sawed wood? Not always easy, not quick and now factor in a squirming, screaming animal that is strong. Right.

Gouging: OMG. A left over torture device from the middle ages. No No No No No.

The vet: which can apply anesthesia but as you may not be aware of, vets are expensive and I'm not sure that's covered under pet insurance. hmmm, can I insure goats? I may have to look into this. They are kids, they have names..why not? Blue Cross dependents?

Which leads us to Susanne's method of choice...

Burning: Yep, a goat dehorner is a hot iron that is placed on the horn bud when the goats are somewhere around 2 weeks old. Too early, they can grow back and too late, the horns are tough to get off. Not to mention that goats are strong animals. The little two week old wee ones are tough enough to pin down. I'd also speculate that the earlier this is done, the less likely they'll remember. I'm sure there is a great correlation between men and well..I'll stop there. Our mother's are reading this and I'm blushing. I'll address it later when the banding begins. heh heh.

So, what happens is: the selected little goat is placed in a wooden box that secures them and leaves their heads free to be, well... tormented. One person holds the head secure and the other sits atop the box and on goes the iron over the horn buds for around 10 seconds or so. Twice on each bud and a top cross to finish it off. The babies scream and cry and squirm and the whole thing is just unpleasant. No question. Did I mention the smell? Singed hair, cauterized bone and skin. I'll say no more.

The thing is, that within seconds the little goat shakes its head and is generally just peeved to be stuck in a box. Once let loose, the kid looks at you and proceeds to want to be fed. No hard feelings. whew.

One of the original two woman to take on the task was happily replaced last kidding season. Alicia found the whole event not to her liking and the stress level of all escalated. She was ousted from the job as luckily, her replacement moved back to town. She is more than okay with this as Alicia is the most squeamish of us. We still love her. Ask her about Louis's abscess sometime, she would love to tell you about it.

You may ask the question as to why remove the horns to begin with? Goats have horns so the most humane thing would be to just leave them right? Well, horns create a whole mess of issues for the humans and the goats themselves. A goat is keenly aware of it's weapons and very intent at times on using them, if not necessarily on the humans that feed them but on each other.

Wheyward had two goats that had their horns. Two beautiful animals that provided a lot of milk and some very cute daughters. The ladies Spot and Silly, became increasingly aware of the power they wielded amongst the non horned herd. They became bullies with increasing incidences of naughtiness and outright bad goat behavior. They were moved off the farm to spend time with just themselves. Two spinster sisters munching on someone's petunias. Peace out girls.

The Boy in the Bedroom

Ah the boys.

In a business where girls are desired and coveted for their milk production, size of their udders and ability to give us more girls, what do we do about the boys? The HooDoo Valley Farm is indeed a matriarchal society. We are the anti-China. The little female kid that arrives at birth puts the smiles on the faces. Future moms= future milk producers=cheese. $$

The little boys only elicit the initial: oooh, how cute. Too bad its a boy.

A dairy certainly needs one or two males. Boys certainly have a use and every fall they get to strut their stuff for around 3 weeks when the does go into heat. Already a very smelly beast the o' so sexy males make themselves irresistible to the ladies further increasing their aroma by peeing on themselves. Peeing. All over themselves. A once tolerable musky skunk-like scented mangoat, bucky is now transformed to a yellow, stiff legged foul, pee smellin' very focused male. They walk around with their tongues hanging out blurbering at the females who at the right time, is the only thing that can tolerate them. Ah, the Bucks. (Picture the man in your life sauntering up to you, reeking of a urinal with his tongue out..hey, baby)

Genetics. Boys may pass on the udder genes to their daughters, so a mom with the goat equivalent of a double D udder may give her son a chance to stay on the farm. Otherwise, what do you do with a male goat. A couple options:

1. Auction/sale.

2. Alicia's freezer.

Both are sending the male kids to some one's dinner plate. Check out the NY times:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/01/dining/01goat.html

I'm sure Alicia would love to share some recipes. A companion for our cheese recipe book?

There is a goat in our living room. One of the boys decided two nights ago, that sleeping outside the barn near the water drain was more preferable to the dry hay, warm goats and companionship of the kids. Perhaps Olaf kicked him out and wouldn't let him in, ornery little f*@# that he is..

Chilled, wet and no food in hours, the little man was in sad shape. Perhaps already on borrowed time, he was tube fed and brought in to be watched over by the dark one. Dylan takes her baby goat responsibilities seriously and maintained a vigilant watch throughout the night. The women of the house expected the little guy to not make it through morning but were rather surprised when, at the wee hours of the am, we awoke to a very hungry, very loud kid crying in the living room.

The little man was left at home, still in the house with his new buddy Dylan. Hopefully still in his bin, but then its Susanne's turn to vacuum aka pellet pickup.

rasta llama

Llamas. Watch out, they spit.

Wikipedia: The llama (Lama glama) is a South American camelid, widely used as a pack and meat animal by Andean cultures since pre-hispanic times. In popular culture llamas are mostly associated with the Incans and Peru. Using llamas as livestock guards in North America began in the early 1980s and some sheep producers have used llamas successfully for that entire time. The use of guard llamas has greatly increased since a magazine article in 1990, when national attention was drawn to the potential use of llamas for guarding sheep.

HooDoo Valley Farm has tossed around the idea of using a llama for a guard and tossed it right on out. Eventually a new dog will live at the farm and protect it from the coyotes, wolves and cougars of north Idaho, until then we have the dillybean, the dark one, the princess Dylan. She makes her rounds barking and running, generally maintaining a secure perimeter of the farm. A mutt of uncertain heritage, the often grumpy panted canine is queen of the full size bed she occasionally allows her human to share with her. There is suspicion of a coyote boyfriend and she is nervous around the adult goats but rather fond of the cat Cha Cha. Unconditionally spoiled by her mother, Miss Dylan, good dog that she is, cannot take on the larger canines that roam the valley, and has recently been shown to be scared of large brown llamas who visit the farm.

A particular llama sauntered in about 3 days ago. Lured perhaps by the bleating of strange noises, he eventually made his way up from the neighbors field (our extended front yard) to Wheywards front pasture. The morning of the 27th, while sipping her morning coffee, Kat watched the large, brown llama cautiously walk up the driveway. "Sus, you got a llama in your yard". What?! I don't want a llama in my yard.

But she had one.

This would explain Dylans unusual desire to stay inside. The magesticness of the animal was negated by its nappy, hippy dreaded coat and rather comical under bite that could be seen from 40 feet away. Seemingly harmless, rather amusing and a nice distraction from the norm, the llama however was still an unwelcome guest and a call would be made to inform its owner (over 3 miles away as the crow flies) Mr. Blood, that his llama was visiting.

Later that day, while the human ladies were at work, the neighbors Will and his sis Chelsea would be shoo-ing the rasta llama from the HooDoo Valley Farm since Rasta llama was inappropriately interested in the does and chasing them out of the barn. So much for guard llama.

Rasta Llama has since moved on. He most recently was reported spooking the neighbors horses but perhaps due to the negative response of his Innocent wanderings, he has hopefully found his way back to the Bloods and can finally poop in peace.

(llama are rumored to only like to poop in one place, I cannot confirm nor deny this)

what to do with all the babies

7 girls and 7 boys born to 7 ladies. No, not the latest Rogers and Hammerstein musical but this years crop of future milkers and shakers! How cute are they! Almost all were born without incident. Day. Night. Afternoon. The mom's kept Susanne up to the wee hours, up before the crack of dawn and racing home from work. Do goats need help? Doctors don't deliver babies, mothers do-same goes for the goats. However, all does not always go as planned and help is sometimes needed. Susanne was blessed with tiny, itsy bitsy little hands and the goats appreciate that quality in her. Not many needed any help at all and only had us oohing and ahhing over the babies, generally being fascinated by the births and the process. Birth is messy. Its bloody, its gooey, its not pretty. It is absolutely incredible.

One birth of note: Marykate, floozy that she is, popped out a floppy ear Nubian.

Let me explain for the nongoaters. Marykate is a laMancha breed. She has no ears. She has little nubbins. She was bred with a laMancha buck. The kids should have come out with no ears. One did. Number two sister surprised us twice. First thinking it was a boy and then as the little goat came out back feet first, she had floppy ears. hmmmm. Yes, there is a Nubian buck that she was with but this genetic craziness is unusual-remember recessive/dominant genes back in biology?

Very cool and very, very cute. The yet to be named little one has taken the favorite spot amongst the humans. Sorry Scout. You're still in the top two, kiddo.

Sadly, our little Nubian doe, the wee little poptart cheerleader of the herd Miss Molly did not make it. Her boy was unable to move pass the birth canal and due to the extent and difficulty of the labor, the little buck did not survive and Molly had to be put down. She will be missed.

The season starts..

No one every said it was going to be easy. However, we can cross our fingers and toes that it will never be that hard. Babies born this last week begin the second season of cheese production, farmers markets, sales and marketing, oh so fun bookwork, time juggling, milking twice a day, feeding, watering, state visits, friends visiting, family visits, truck repair, fence repair, fence building, outbuildings, gates to be put up and where do we put all the goats?

One woman with a passion for cheese and goats that began in Ohio. The love affair started out with a little Nubian named Kerra and her two babies: Thelma and Louise. A Nubian may sneak into any one's heart, with the floppy bunny ears and doe-eyed bambi looks but milking goats for a living? hmmmm. Surely no crazier than skiing for a living.

How does a summer spent outside Dayton, Ohio on a farm turn a future heart surgeon into a milk maid, you may ask? The answer simply doesn't matter. Someone said once:

“When work, commitment, and pleasure all become one and you reach that deep well where passion lives, nothing is impossible."