Before I sat down to write this I took a look through previous posts to see what I had told the world about Cinnamon-girl. The answer is not all that much. So let me begin with what a very nice goat she was. She was not a super goat, she didn't do anything remarkable. But she was a fine goat ambassador. Ambassadress.
She came when she was called, either by name or by saying "Meheheheheh". & she loved to make conversation: when someone talked to her she always talked back, usually in a very soothing "Mhmhmhmh" sort of way. When she felt quiet she would rest her chin & throat against you & burp quiet grassy burps.
Cinnamon-girl has not been doing well for a couple months. She used to run like a marionette cut loose of her strings, but over the winter she stopped running entirely. Most days she slept alone in the barn, just sort of drowsing until I called her to come for snack time in the backyard (she ate my brand new roses this weekend; they will grow back). On Sunday I told A I didn't think it would be much longer. She was stumbling a bit, but hungry & eat happily.
But today, no snack time. I found her down at the back of the pasture. Her legs were cycling & I while I could push her up on to her chest (& did so I could pour water into her mouth -which she could swallow). I kept her as cool as I could, pulling her out of the sun & putting an old -t-shirt under her head so she didn't get grit in her eye. A came home from work & did what needed to be done.
We buried her in where we have put dogs & cat, mini-mule & even emus. When we put her in the ground, we both realized how very thin she was although she had been eating plenty. She was not a young goat when we got her. I don't have the heart to look up her papers right now, but we are know she was in her late teens/early twenties.
Good bye Cinnamon-girl. I will miss the way you stood on your hind legs, your front legs hanging down from the elbow eating leaves from the trees. You always looked like Miss Gulch, if she ate leaved from trees. Which would have improved her.
Showing posts with label goat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label goat. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Monday, February 23, 2009
"The drummer relaxes & waits between shows for his..."
Cinnamon Girl is quite the sweetest goat you will ever meet. She is not particularly stubborn or smart (I am not crazy about an excess of brain in my goats; I am guessing most drummers are not either in their groupies).
I had planned to get LaManchas; the term "elf ear" intrigued me so. & then I saw Cinnamon Girl & that was that. She has the opposite kinds of ears; they are long & swooped. A lot like That Girl!'s hair, actually. & when she runs, they bounce & her knees seem to flex in all directions (I know they don't, but they seem to) & she looks like a marionette without the strings.
We have other goats (other breeds of goats) & I can safely say, Nubians are special & Cinnamon Girl is special among Nubians.
I said Cinnamon Girl was not particularly stubborn; I meant for a goat. Goats are not jack-ass stubborn or even tennis-ball-dog relentless, but they are thorough. Domesticated goats have few skills. The only one not deliberately bred into them that I have found is being able to bash things with their heads with some accuracy. This does not sound like much & it isn't, but it is more than you would think.
If you were to bash your head over & over against one side of a feed barrel lid, sooner or later you would unscrew that lid. I realize this is not how you personally would go about it, but it is exactly how a goat does. & once that barrel is open, you (if you were a goat) can bash your head over & over again into the barrel until it tips over. There are some tricky bits, though. First you need to hit the lid consistently & always on the 'unscrew' side, otherwise you are working against yourself. & you need to get these tasks in the right order; if you tip the barrel before you get the lid off, you will never get the lid off. The barrel will just roll around.
It took a few years, but she has it down now.
I had planned to get LaManchas; the term "elf ear" intrigued me so. & then I saw Cinnamon Girl & that was that. She has the opposite kinds of ears; they are long & swooped. A lot like That Girl!'s hair, actually. & when she runs, they bounce & her knees seem to flex in all directions (I know they don't, but they seem to) & she looks like a marionette without the strings.
We have other goats (other breeds of goats) & I can safely say, Nubians are special & Cinnamon Girl is special among Nubians.
I said Cinnamon Girl was not particularly stubborn; I meant for a goat. Goats are not jack-ass stubborn or even tennis-ball-dog relentless, but they are thorough. Domesticated goats have few skills. The only one not deliberately bred into them that I have found is being able to bash things with their heads with some accuracy. This does not sound like much & it isn't, but it is more than you would think.If you were to bash your head over & over against one side of a feed barrel lid, sooner or later you would unscrew that lid. I realize this is not how you personally would go about it, but it is exactly how a goat does. & once that barrel is open, you (if you were a goat) can bash your head over & over again into the barrel until it tips over. There are some tricky bits, though. First you need to hit the lid consistently & always on the 'unscrew' side, otherwise you are working against yourself. & you need to get these tasks in the right order; if you tip the barrel before you get the lid off, you will never get the lid off. The barrel will just roll around.
It took a few years, but she has it down now.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Saint Roch
Somehow, I do not know how, I missed the feast day of Saint Roch, the patron of dogs & dog lovers. It was August 16.
He is also the man you go to when you have been falsely accused, or have a skin ailment, or the plague. Further, he is the patron of bachelors. Yes, dogs & bachelors.
Finally, he is the patron of dealers in second-hand goods. This works for me, because all my dogs are second-hand. & while A was definitely a bachelor when we met, he was also a dog & therefore, arguably, second-hand himself.
Our first dog is still with us. She came from a shelter in Texas (we lived in Houston at the time). Unlike our subsequent dogs (& horses & goats & emus, oh my!) she had no real baggage; she was a puppy, born at the shelter with no history of abuse. Megan is without question the most disfunctional of all our pets.
Because of Megan's extreme lonliness, we got our second dog. Rather, she got us. Josephine followed us home, submitted to a bath, ate a healthy dinner & slept soundly for what was probably the first time in months. Farley also came from a shelter, Florida this time. He & one litter mate survived a nightmare situation; the rest of the litter & their mother did not.
Becca (horse) & Amy-dog (dog) both came as a result of divorces, Anton & Cleo (emus) because their owners were too old to care even for themselves. The Henriettas (the first batch of Rhode Island Red chickens) were found at a gas station in Georgia; they had fallen out of over-packed crates headed for a factory henhouse.
Golda & Black&tan (goats) were de-facto ours for years before they became ours. They belonged to our neighbor & came through our common fence to join our goats. Once together, they did not want to seperate. G*** had Parkinsons & was less&less able to live the way he wanted. One awful day he shot himself.
Coco (horse) was born at a pregnant mare urine (used to manufacture Premarin) collection facility. She was one of many foals sold for meat & shipped around the world.
Back to Saint Roch: there is some question apparently as to whether or not he is even one person. That is, more than one story seems to have morphed into his. Generally agreed upon is that he was released from prison, contracted the plague, gave away his substantial inheritance, was set-upon by his own relations & went to live in the woods in a hut he made himself, not necessarily in that order. A local nobleman's dog brought him food. The nobleman followed the dog, discovered Saint Roch & the rest is history. Or not, as the case may be.
The last thing you should know about Saint Roch is that he is not a saint. While there are churches in his name from Lebanon to Staten Island & Manila to Minsk, in the late 15oos someone dropped the ball & his official saint-hood was never confirmed.
& so he is, a not-quite saint, for anyone whose first chance does not have to be their last.
He is also the man you go to when you have been falsely accused, or have a skin ailment, or the plague. Further, he is the patron of bachelors. Yes, dogs & bachelors.
Finally, he is the patron of dealers in second-hand goods. This works for me, because all my dogs are second-hand. & while A was definitely a bachelor when we met, he was also a dog & therefore, arguably, second-hand himself.
Our first dog is still with us. She came from a shelter in Texas (we lived in Houston at the time). Unlike our subsequent dogs (& horses & goats & emus, oh my!) she had no real baggage; she was a puppy, born at the shelter with no history of abuse. Megan is without question the most disfunctional of all our pets.
Because of Megan's extreme lonliness, we got our second dog. Rather, she got us. Josephine followed us home, submitted to a bath, ate a healthy dinner & slept soundly for what was probably the first time in months. Farley also came from a shelter, Florida this time. He & one litter mate survived a nightmare situation; the rest of the litter & their mother did not.
Becca (horse) & Amy-dog (dog) both came as a result of divorces, Anton & Cleo (emus) because their owners were too old to care even for themselves. The Henriettas (the first batch of Rhode Island Red chickens) were found at a gas station in Georgia; they had fallen out of over-packed crates headed for a factory henhouse.
Golda & Black&tan (goats) were de-facto ours for years before they became ours. They belonged to our neighbor & came through our common fence to join our goats. Once together, they did not want to seperate. G*** had Parkinsons & was less&less able to live the way he wanted. One awful day he shot himself.
Coco (horse) was born at a pregnant mare urine (used to manufacture Premarin) collection facility. She was one of many foals sold for meat & shipped around the world.
Back to Saint Roch: there is some question apparently as to whether or not he is even one person. That is, more than one story seems to have morphed into his. Generally agreed upon is that he was released from prison, contracted the plague, gave away his substantial inheritance, was set-upon by his own relations & went to live in the woods in a hut he made himself, not necessarily in that order. A local nobleman's dog brought him food. The nobleman followed the dog, discovered Saint Roch & the rest is history. Or not, as the case may be.
The last thing you should know about Saint Roch is that he is not a saint. While there are churches in his name from Lebanon to Staten Island & Manila to Minsk, in the late 15oos someone dropped the ball & his official saint-hood was never confirmed.
& so he is, a not-quite saint, for anyone whose first chance does not have to be their last.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Gregarious goats gather in the garden
It is not so much a garden as a yard. & they do not so much gather as elude. But because they will take every opportunity to eat my ornamentals, I have become more selective about what I grow, even in the livestock-free zones.
I learned this lesson the hard way when our first two goats got into the front yard & made a snack of the azaleas. Our vet could either see them after he had finished his in-clinic shift in several hours or I could bring them to him. Bring them I did. Two nubian goats in the backseat of a Toyota Camry (A had the truck on campus & a switch was just not possible).
When goats vomit, they turn their heads at a 90 degree angle to their bodies & shake them vigoursly from side-to-side (which is effectively up&down in this position). I never did get all that nasty yellow foam out of the ceiling of my Camry & I am sure it is still there today. Fortunately this car had power windows so I could easily roll the back windows down enough so they could stick their heads out & then up again to trap them outside (without endangering them I promise).
I do still grow the original azaleas, but I dig up their babies & give them away. Ditto most of the sagos. Those that stay are well away from any accessible fence-opening ('gate' being a fluid term for a goat). Newly planted ornamentals are of edible varieties: ginger, mostly; aloe & prickly pear, edible even as they are unpalatable; sunflowers while they lasted; banana; etc.
Getting goats out of the yard is tricky. They are herd animals & most of them want to be where the others are; lead one out & most will follow. The exception is our grande dame Cinnamon Girl. She does not mind being alone in the yard, the better to eat it all herself. But she does mind getting wet.
Goats in general abhor getting wet. I have seen them fight with a horse who would kill them with one blow rather than leave a stall & go out into the rain, or even a light mist. Feeding on rainy days can be challenging, as the goats must be removed before I can put feed in the buckets & lure the horses in.
To get Cinnamon Girl out of the yard, we turn the hose on her & drive her around the yard until she gives up & goes back through a gate. Getting goats out of a stall is more of a wrestling match. & once out, they cling to the wall, trying to keep all of themselves under the slight overhang that protects them from that horrible, horrible water-from-the-sky. This makes it hard for me to walk this path keeping the feed in the buckets dry.
But nothing would induce me to live without Cinnamon Girl (although I know Mother Nature will intervene eventually). She is a gentle animal with sweet grassy breathe, who likes to rest her head on me, her chin pointing towards mine. & best of all, when I call her she runs to me looking like nothing so much as a maroinette, all ears & strangely jointed limbs, flying flying.
I learned this lesson the hard way when our first two goats got into the front yard & made a snack of the azaleas. Our vet could either see them after he had finished his in-clinic shift in several hours or I could bring them to him. Bring them I did. Two nubian goats in the backseat of a Toyota Camry (A had the truck on campus & a switch was just not possible).
When goats vomit, they turn their heads at a 90 degree angle to their bodies & shake them vigoursly from side-to-side (which is effectively up&down in this position). I never did get all that nasty yellow foam out of the ceiling of my Camry & I am sure it is still there today. Fortunately this car had power windows so I could easily roll the back windows down enough so they could stick their heads out & then up again to trap them outside (without endangering them I promise).
I do still grow the original azaleas, but I dig up their babies & give them away. Ditto most of the sagos. Those that stay are well away from any accessible fence-opening ('gate' being a fluid term for a goat). Newly planted ornamentals are of edible varieties: ginger, mostly; aloe & prickly pear, edible even as they are unpalatable; sunflowers while they lasted; banana; etc.
Getting goats out of the yard is tricky. They are herd animals & most of them want to be where the others are; lead one out & most will follow. The exception is our grande dame Cinnamon Girl. She does not mind being alone in the yard, the better to eat it all herself. But she does mind getting wet.
Goats in general abhor getting wet. I have seen them fight with a horse who would kill them with one blow rather than leave a stall & go out into the rain, or even a light mist. Feeding on rainy days can be challenging, as the goats must be removed before I can put feed in the buckets & lure the horses in.
To get Cinnamon Girl out of the yard, we turn the hose on her & drive her around the yard until she gives up & goes back through a gate. Getting goats out of a stall is more of a wrestling match. & once out, they cling to the wall, trying to keep all of themselves under the slight overhang that protects them from that horrible, horrible water-from-the-sky. This makes it hard for me to walk this path keeping the feed in the buckets dry.
But nothing would induce me to live without Cinnamon Girl (although I know Mother Nature will intervene eventually). She is a gentle animal with sweet grassy breathe, who likes to rest her head on me, her chin pointing towards mine. & best of all, when I call her she runs to me looking like nothing so much as a maroinette, all ears & strangely jointed limbs, flying flying.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)