The little orphan "kid"

Last week was cold and rainy here in southern Virginia. Four solid days of steady rain and a few hours of snow left a muddy mess. I dare not complain. My granddaddy taught me years ago that you never cuss the rain, that's what 60 years of farming had taught him. The gloominess of last week was only compounded by the loss of our matriarchal goat, Grandma Goat. And to add insult to injury, the added task of raising her orphaned kid, Frosty.

The twins love to cuddle, unlike Frosty.

Being ever prepared for the worse, I already had a bag of livestock milk replacer in my cache of critter paraphernalia. It's just like infant formula. Just measure, mix and serve. Sounds easy right? We have all seen those nostalgic, Norman Rockwellescent pictures of the farm lady bottle feeding some sweet, cuddly baby animal. It lays calmly in her lap while she quietly strokes its soft fur.

Well here's how it really went down. Freckles twin boys love attention. They come running to meet us every time we enter the goat pasture. They vie for affection just like the most playful Labrador pup would do. If you dare to sit down, one or both of them will quickly be scaling you like a West Virginia mountain side! This makes for an awesome photo opt, but those hooves can hurt! Frosty didn't follow the twins lead. He has always hung back and shied away from us. Every animal is different. Just catching Frosty to give him a bottle was no easy task. As described in an earlier story, And then there were goats...on 1/4/13, catching a goat that does not want to be caught can require the speed and agility of an Olympic caliber sprinter.



Reluctant snuggle time with Frosty.

 As I mixed the bottle, the smell of the milk replacer flooded me with memories of my childhood. Oh how I loved to help my Pappaw bottle feed his baby Holstein calves. With high hopes and sweet memories, I set out for the goat pasture. Once I got my hands on Frosty I thought he would welcome the comfort of a nice warm bottle. Wrong! After three weeks of nursing from his mother he was repulsed by this foreign invasion of a rubber nipple. Hooves flew, legs flailed, that adorable little ball of snow white softness felt more like a porcupine having a full blow epileptic seizure! He screamed as though I had him on an ancient Roman torture rack! I pried his mouth open, thinking if he tasted the milk he would realize I wasn't trying to kill him. Wrong!

Trying to get Frosty to drink from a pan, with help from the twins.

          Silly me, with my Norman Rockwell visions, had ventured out alone that morning to feed the orphan goat. I had  this preconceived notion that it would be a pleasant experience for both me and little Frosty.  So, as I sat in the rain, wrangling the unwilling participant in this event, the twins came to check out the action. In no time they both were jockeying for position ON TOP of my head! Covered in mud and milk, I admitted defeat and headed back to the house for back up.

Of all the frequent things wives ask their husbands to do, I'm sure, "Hunny, can you come keep the goats off my head?" is not real high on list. But, around here that was not considered an odd request. So Allen acted as official "goat shooer" and we tried again. This time I separated him from the others and poured the milk in a pan for him to drink with only slightly better results. Like every mother force feeding her children broccoli and carrots, I was convinced of his certain demise if he didn't eat properly. It was a valiant effort on our part, but in the end the little goat won. I resided to mixing up extra milk and pouring it in the main trough were all the goats enjoy it together. That is the only way little Frosty will drink it freely. I guess its like doing the "choo choo train" or the "airplane" to get my little ones to eat their veggies. Sometimes, it just has to be on their terms.

All the goats enjoying some warm milk, thanks to little Frosty.