When we should have been, preferred to have been, out celebrating Canada Day…we were instead nursing a small goat in her final hours…succumbing to pneumonia less than a day from when the signs first started to appear. A wee one who had never seemed quite up to the task of life, who’s mum hadn’t rejected her but wasn’t actively taking much of an interest in her. A tiny teammate to her small pony sized brothers.
A doeling. Not yet named though calling her ‘Scoop’ had been floated around given how many times we would bring her to her mama for a drink when her brothers were off galavanting. Then when it came to fill a prescription we would never use for antibiotics, ‘Tiger’ became her name for a couple of hours.
How much do you intervene?
I tried so hard to get home. It’s a wonder I didn’t abandon my car in Campbell River and make a run for it to leap onto the ferry in order to somehow, someway make it back to the farm.
A different story, still yet to be told is why I happened to be in town in the first place. It all started with my old Ford truck that happened to run away with me a week ago. But I’ll leave that cliffhanger right there and simply say I had been over with the mechanic getting it checked out and in working order again.
There are some things about farming that are unbelievably romantic and beautiful. Other things are just plain dirty and unpleasant. Poopy. Then there are the magical completely terrifying parts. Baby goats fall into this category for me.
Their superpowers of adorableness exceed all else. But the risks, the potential for disaster, are unfortunately something we know well.
We have been watching the barn closely through a baby monitor for the last couple of weeks. In some ways, I’m grateful that though I intended to get this set up back in December…I didn’t.
Let me back up.
You know how back in December I was all “OMG guys! Baby goats!” then everyone was wondering “But when?” and I was like “I don’t know! Soon! Maybe 4-6 weeks?”
Two years ago, Scott and I were down in Portland for a mini-break. We ended up meeting two backyard ‘herds’ of Nigerian Dwarf Goats.
As they say, the rest is history.
We already knew we were goat people. We knew that we wanted goats. I was once again relieved and grateful for Scott’s tendency to research every nook and cranny of a subject before reaching a conclusion. Nigerian Dwarfs. Half the size, high butter fat, mildest of milks, lower upkeep costs.
And CUUUUUUUUTE. Let’s not forget how friggin adorable they are.
The timing couldn’t have been better.
I’ve been checking in on the girls every couple of days to see how things are ‘progressing’…which basically means a gentle poke to the area where their udder will be (at least in the case of the three first time fresheners, Maple (pictured), Waffles and Pancakes. This will be Gertie’s fourth kidding, so we have a better idea of how her pregnancy and labour will play out…once her udder starts to ‘bag up’ it’ll be 24-48 hours before kids are on the ground.
Tonight…there were little pouches forming.