Thank a goat for that cup of coffee!



A Keurig coffee maker.

 If you are like me, no morning is complete without a good ol' hot cup of coffee. I have a detailed mental list of what to save should the house ever catch fire. No surprise the Keurig makes the top ten. We even took it along on vacation last year like a beloved family pet. In case you've never heard of them, a Keurig is a single cup coffee maker for home use.



I get up every morning between 5 and 5:30 with Allen and brew us each a fresh cup of coffee. He goes off to work and I cram in as many chores as I can before the kids wake up. Our entire morning routine revolves around that first eye opening cup of joe. Never in a million years would I have equated coffee with my cloven hooved, entertaining friend...the goat.  



The berries are called "coffee cherries".



Goats discovered coffee. Yes, goats! Actually, they discovered the energizing effects of the coffee berry. The 600 year old legend hails from Ethiopia and a goat herdsman named Kaldi. One day he noticed that his goats became energized and alert after eating bright red berries from a local tree. Curious of this effect, he ate some of the berries too. And to his amazement they had the same effect on him.



Kaldi and his goats.



Convinced the berries had miraculous powers, Kaldi took them to the local monastery for the monks to see. At first, they condemned the berries as a work of the devil and threw them in the fireplace. As the berries began to roast, that oh so alluring fragrance filled the monastery. Compelled by the aroma, the monks decided to pull the roasted berries from the fire and preserve them in hot water. Soon the curious monks had sampled the resulting 'coffee' and discovered its awakening powers. It then became a nightly ritual to sip on the brew to keep them alert during their night time prayers.

At least that's how the legend goes. I suppose coffee is somewhere between a 'miracle' and the 'devils work', at least in our house. All is 'glorious' after that first cup, and 'damned' if we run out!

Here is a link to the coffee legend, http://www.beanthere.co.za/discover/history/kaldis-coffee-discovery 

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.

A goat tragedy

Our daughter Taylor and Grandma Goat

For nearly four months 'Grandma Goat' had been ruling the roost around here. Going along at her own geriatric pace, eating up as much food and attention as she could. As I explained in an earlier story, she came to live with us to avoid being sent to slaughter. She was well past her prime, mostly deaf, blind in one eye and very old. She came along with several other goats this past October to live with us. All of the females were pregnant when we purchased them, including Grandma Goat.

We had fenced off a two acre 'maternity ward' pasture separate from the larger thirty acre goat pasture. It's not a good idea for the new mommy's to be in the same pasture with the billy goat so we had already moved Freckles into the maternity ward where she had twin boys. The breeder we bought our goats from thought Grandma Goat would deliver, called "kidding" in goats, about three weeks after Freckles did. So, Grandma Goat was still in the main goat pasture with Billy, Strawberry and Jose the donkey.

Like everything else, Grandma Goat had her baby on her own terms and on her own time. About a month ago we spent a very long Saturday working on fences. It was already getting dark when I made it home. Allen and Tuff, my step son, were still at the hog pasture working. As I came up the driveway doing my usual head count of the animals one was missing, Grandma Goat. Because she was so old, I was immediately concerned and feared the worse.



Grandma Goat and Frosty



A short four wheeler search later, I found her. She was out in the main pasture, just at the edge of the woods. The way our fields gently roll, I couldn't see her from the driveway. She was standing guard over a new born baby boy. It was an unusually cold January evening and the temperature was already well below freezing. I scooped the little one up and tucked him in my coat. He was snow white and shivering, I named him "Frosty".

I turned to get back on the four wheeler, thinking I would simply ride slowly back to the gate and walk Grandma Goat and her new baby out of the big pasture and into the maternity ward. As usual, nothing is ever easy around here. By now it was dark and I had a captive audience, Billy, Strawberry and Jose had found us. Billy was overly interested in what was going on. I had to stand guard between him and Grandma Goat. Jose was jealous of the baby goat in my coat and had my jeans firmly in his rather large teeth tugging at me, begging for a treat. All the while Strawberry, our overly excitable goat, is running non stop circles around us all. It felt like a scene out of Dr. Doolittle.



Grandma Goat and Frosty



It was then I realized I was gonna need some help. So I called in the cavalry. Allen and Tuff brought the old farm truck out and we loaded Grandma goat up and took her to the maternity pasture without incident. Billy posted himself beside the four foot woven wire fence separating the two pastures to keep an eye on his ladies. Jose got his treat and Strawberry finally calmed down.

That brings me to this past Monday afternoon. I found Grandma Goat lying in the barn unresponsive. Her eyes were rapidly twitching back and forth non stop and she would occasionally cry out it in distress.  It appeared to me she had suffered a stroke. I quickly consulted with our vet and with the very knowledgeable goat breeder she came from. Both advised what I already knew.



Frosty

 What truly broke my heart was the frightened cries from her little orphan, Frosty as we loaded his mommy into the back of the truck one last time. Even at three weeks old, this little guy knew something was terribly wrong. After many years as a paramedic, baring witness to an array of human suffering, I learned long ago that there are worse things than death.  Most days we focus on ensuring a good, happy life for our animals. On this particularly grey, rainy Monday we had to offer one a peaceful death. We buried sweet old Grandma Goat among a grove pine trees at the back of our farm.

Back behind bars

Berkshire piglet

Finally, after a week on the run, Wiggles is back behind bars! Or  rather, contained within a fence a again. As usual, nothing is ever easy around here. Our big plan for Saturday morning was this, to get Wiggles back into a pen, place all the female piglets in the pen with her and get all the male piglets into the back of the truck so they could be 'cut'. When raising pigs for meat, all the male pigs must be castrated, removal of the testicles, to prevent the production of certain hormones. These hormones "taint" the meat with a horrible flavor, rendering it inedible. I would rather weed eat our 30 acre fence line on the hottest July day than castrate these little pigs. But, it is a necessary task, so I suck it up and do it anyway *pouts*.

Our poor, unsuspecting nephew, Willie, had ventured out of town and driven out to the country for a visit Saturday morning. Around here, when company shows up the farm chores do not stop while we visit, the visitor just joins in. At first, all was going smoothly. Wiggles immediately went inside the  pen where we had been placing her feed all week. Allen quickly shut the gate behind her. I pulled the truck right up to the shed where the ten piglets were hold up. This was about 30 feet from there to were Wiggles was enjoying her breakfast.

Allen instructed my nephew and I to grab the males to place in the truck while he grabbed the females to put in with Wiggles. One little oversight, at one week old, all little pigs still have a protruding navel. There are no obvious "boy parts" glaring at you from the rear view either.  You can't just quickly glance at a distance to discern male from female, a closer look is necessary. When Allen grabbed up the first piglet is when all began to go down hill. Of course, it let loose a deafening squeal and Wiggles went ballistic! Another oversight, Wiggles was back in the pen, the ten babies were not. Upon hearing squeals from the first captured piglet, the other nine took flight, in nine different directions! It looked like a professional billiards player had just broken a game of nine ball!

Wiggles and her babies.

At one week old and 3-5 pounds, those little piggies could move! With no fence to contain them, their escape routes were endless! To add to the stress of the situation, Wiggles had become enraged. She was charging up and down the fence line growling and snorting, plowing into the fence trying to break through it. All in all a pretty terrifying situation. At one point, I had one piglet cornered a few feet from Wiggles fence. A stare down ensued. I inched closer, I was just about to grab it when Wiggles charged our way. The little piggy ran through the fence for its mommy, I ran the OPPOSITE direction! I hope that one was a girl, because it got away!

Wiggles back behind bars.

Once all the little piggy's were either in the truck or in the pen with Wiggles, we drove the boys to our work shop/surgical ward. Since I had only performed this procedure once before on a previous litter, I refreshed my memory on castration techniques while waiting for my adrenaline induced hand trembling to subside. Scalpels and shaky hands don't mix! Seems I've had one too many adrenaline rushes here lately. Maybe we should sell tickets for farming, bill it as "The latest, greatest adrenaline rush, forget skydiving and rock climbing!". As I was reading the article on castration I had to laugh. It warned, "the sow may seem mildly concerned when you separate her piglets from her". MILDLY!! I know Wiggles is an exceptionally protective sow and her reaction is not typical.  I imagine if I were a pig, I'd be the same way. So would most of the other mothers I know ;-)

We got the little boy piggy's all fixed up and back in with Wiggles without incident. After it was all said and done, we sat around and did a little 'Monday morning quarterbacking'. Allen delighted in recreating the expressions on mine and Willie's faces when all those little pigs ran in different directions. We are down to ten little ones now. Number eleven seems to have just disappeared. Sweet little Bonnie, the one I sewed back together, is still alive and doing quite well. It's safe to say she is out of the woods and will be with us for many years to come.

All is well with 11 little piggies



Wiggles 'eyeballing' me



I think we will eventually get Wiggles back into a pen without a visit to the local ER or morgue. Since her great escape this past Saturday, we have been pouring her feed into a nearby pen and leaving the gate open. We knew she would find the feed there, as she has been housed in that pen before. Pigs are VERY smart. Our latest grand plan is to shut the gate after she enters the pen on her own volition. One thing I have learned from pigs; you can not make an intelligent, 600 pound animal do ANYTHING it doesn't want to do. After we get her in, we will then sneak her babies into the pen with her. 



Wiggles in her future pen...we hope.

  Until today, Wiggles would wait until we left to go in and eat. To my surprise, and momentary horror, the second she heard me pour out her feed inside the pen, she rounded the corner and headed for the open gate. Of course, as Murphy's 'Farm' Law would have it, Allen had to work late today and was not with me. There was no way I was going to attempt executing our plan without him. I theorised, if she came out of one solid, well built pen, then she can come out of another one! And I wasn't gonna test that theory  without back up! My dad had gone with me down to the barnyard, "just in case" hogzilla did attack. No matter how old I get, I'll always be daddy's little girl and he will always be looking out for me. It must be some kind of unwritten southern rule.

All warm and cuddly

 I am hoping her "new mama pig crazies" are subsiding somewhat. She didn't growl and snap her jaws at me like she has every other visit.  It's more likely that she just realized Allen wasn't with me. He has been the only one brave enough to get close to her and handle her piglets. Maybe 'insane' would be a better descriptive term than 'brave' here. Either way, never under estimate the intelligence of a pig. According to numerous studies, pigs rank among the top five smartest animals. They rank up there with the great apes and dolphins. I am certain to have crossed paths with several humans during my lifetime that wouldn't rank that high ;-)

As Wiggles was chowing down, I parked my get away vehicle up close to the piglets. That gave me the security I needed to sneak over and check on our little patient, "Bonnie". All 11 little ones were lined up beneath the warmth of the heat lamp. To my delight, little Bonnie was snuggled in amongst them. I didn't dare get close enough for a thorough inspection of her injury. I knew the slightest squeal would have Wiggles charging my way full speed. However, from a few feet away it looked good. There were no signs of drainage or infection. Even though my novice stitches resembled a toddler's string and glue art project more than surgical sutures, they were holding tight! I definitely think we can upgrade her condition from 'fair' to 'good'.



Bonnie and my amateur wound repair.



Is there a doctor in the house?

At daylight this morning Allen went to check on our new additions. Sadly, we lost four piglets overnight. They appear to have gotten squished by their 600+ pound mommy. It happens frequently with pigs and there is unfortunately nothing we can do to prevent it.  On a brighter note,  it turns out Wiggles had 15 babies, not 13! I guess two didn't answer at roll call yesterday.



An injured piglet

 Later in the morning, Allen and I both returned to the barnyard for the daunting task of getting Wiggles back into a pen.  She growled and snorted at us, letting us know we were not welcomed. A sow's growl is deep and menacing. The kind of sound you not only hear, but feel in the pit of your stomach. My bright idea was to place a trail of tomato wedges from where she had set up housekeeping to the open gate we wanted her to go through. Tomatoes are her favorite and despite Allen's snickering at my silly idea she followed the trail of tomatoes eagerly. Gobbling them up one by one, closer and closer to the gate. I had already started my, "Ha ha, my idea worked!" celebration dance when she promptly turned and headed back the other way. So, my dancing ended and Allen's "Ha ha, I told you so's!" began.

 

We peered over the sheet of ply board we had put up the night before, surveying our situation. Just when you think things can't get worse...they usually do. We spotted a gaping tear in the hide of one of the babies.  Wiggles had stepped on the baby, tearing the little ones delicate skin with her sharp hoof. Bright red flesh was shining through a right angle shaped, 1"x1" wound on it's right side. That's a pretty big sized wound on a two pound animal. The piglet was actively nursing and didn't appear to be in any distress. I knew it had to be repaired, the sooner, the better.



Our little girl reassuring the piglet



Before I became a stay at home mom and farmer, I was a paramedic. There isn't a day that goes by that I am not thankful for my medical training and many years of experience. As well kept as our pigs are, they are still pigs, which are not known for their good hygiene. I knew that wound had to be cleaned and closed if this little one was to have any chance of living. We have learned on more than one unfortunate occasion that animal emergencies usually occur after vet office hours. Case in point, this beautiful Sunday morning. Our rural location has only one vet that will treat pigs and I could not get in touch with him. The only other option was a school of veterinary medicine over 100 miles away. The last time I called them for a similar emergency, they were empathetic, but advised me to euthanize the animal. So that meant it was up to us to patch her up. Even the tiniest little pig deserves a chance.

Ours gears shifted from getting Wiggles back behind bars to how to get the injured piglet away from her without one of us ending up needing a doctor as well. From the second they are born, piglets can drown out a jet engine with their ear piercing squeals. These cries for help are what turn Wiggles into hogzilla. Our dilemma was two fold. One, how to get ahold of the piglet without Wiggles getting one of us. And two, how to keep her from injuring another piglet when she bolts up to give chase.

After several minutes of deliberation our plan came together. I backed a truck as close as I could to the shed Wiggles was hold up in. Her back was to us, a good thing. We waited until no other piglets would be in her enraged path of pursuit. I kept the motor running as Allen sprang from the passenger seat and quickly snatched up the injured piglet. True to form, the piglet let loose a blood curdling squeal and hogzilla was unleashed. I floored the gas before Allen even got the door shut. Which was a good thing, because he would  have bumped the tip of Wiggles snout with it! It was a close one...very, VERY close! We tore outta there like Bonnie and Clyde, the little piggy was our loot!


Suturing her wound



Back at our house, after my adrenaline/fear induced hand trembling had subsided, we went to work on our patient. I cleaned the wound as best I could, coated it with an antibacterial wound spray and began to sew her up. Suturing was never in my scope of practice, so I did the best I could. Thankfully, I keep a well stocked medical kit just for my critters. That's just one of the many things I learned as a medic, always be prepared for the worst, and pray for the best. 



Now, to get our good little patient safely back to her mommy. We simply reversed our previous 'snatch and run' plan. This time we hung around for awhile, in the safety of the truck, until Wiggles had resettled herself. We then cautiously peered back over the sheet of ply board. To our excitement we saw the recently repaired little piggy happily nursing her little piggy heart out. If she makes it, she will definitely be a keeper. I think we will name her "Bonnie", in honor of our fast getaway.



On her way to recovery.



A 'baker's dozen' of little piggies!!

We got a wonderful surprise today when we went to check on our pigs. Actually, we got two surprises...the first of which was not so wonderful. We had recently moved one of our very pregnant sows, Wiggles, into the "maternity ward".  It is a recent construction with plenty of room, fresh straw bedding and a nice warming lamp. All in all, nice digs for a pig. However, when I rounded the corner of the building to feed Wiggles in her posh new pen, she wasn't there. Commercial hog houses cram  there pregnant sows into narrow metal cages, called farrowing crates. These crates prevent the sow from moving forward or backward. Nor does she have room to turn around. She can only lie on her side to give birth and nurse her babies. The treatment of pigs in most large hog houses is unforgivable. But that will be a story for another day.

Here is a little history on our dear Wiggles. She is a 2 1/2 year old registered Berkshire we have had for over two years now. From day one, she has been the only one of our pigs that didn't care much for humans. All of the others welcome our ear scratching and belly rubs. Those who make reference to the ferociousness of a mama bear have never encountered a mama pig! Allen had a VERY close call with Wiggles and her first  litter. He entered her pen and picked up one of her babys. When it began to squeal she went NUTS and after Allen she went full speed. He could have qualified for the US Olympic track team getting out of that pen!

Now, back to my surprise this morning. I found the steel cattle panel comprising the east side of her pen pried away from the barn and no Wiggles! I could equate the feeling I had at that moment with that of a zookeeper realizing his lion has escaped. This was a well constructed, very solid pen. My step son asked, "Why did she do that?", my answer, "She is a 600 pound female, she can do anything she wants!" I guess our new maternity pen didn't meet her diva standards. All of our sows fancy themselves 'divas'. They sleep in, demand attention and let us know when something doesn't meet their approval.



Allen doing a head count

 After a cautious search we found Wiggles, still in labor. She hadn't wandered far. She was still in the barnyard, under a covered shed. Wiggles had already delivered 12 babies and we got to see the 13th and final little piggy being born. Giving birth to 13 babies must have taken a bit of fight out of her, because she didn't seem to mind us hovering... ever so cautiously.

All 13 were hearty and active. They were all vying for the best nipple. Piglets do that, apparently some are better than others. I guess its kinda like trying all the toppings at Sweet Frog's (a frozen yogurt shop). You try them all till one's just right. I'm so thankful I had brought my camera with us to check on the pigs. I had been planning to take some pictures of our finishing pigs. Instead, I got some great pictures of the new babies. There are just so adorable!

We decided to just leave her were she is for tonight. I doubt her and the 'baker's dozen' will wander off overnight. There is an electric fence on 3 sides of her and it is a good distance to the nearest road.  We set her up with a bucket of fresh water and put up a sheet of ply board to block any westerly breeze. It's gonna be around freezing here tonight so we hooked up a heat lamp for the new babies. Piglets can't regulate their own body temperature well until about three weeks of age. Mama pigs have been raising their young for thousands of years without human help, so I know the lamp isn't a necessity. We just don't want them to get too cold and it couldn't hurt. I would have put them all in little feety piggy pajamas if I could ;-). 

Our new Berkshire babies

So, we are hoping and praying we find 13 healthy babies again in the morning. We have a plan to get her and her little darlings into a different pen, since the first one obviously didn't suit her. I feel sure she will be back to her old self again by tomorrow. That is why we will trade in our muck boots for running shoes and hope for the best.