Goats have always conjured up some interesting pictures in the human imagination. My sole childhood experience with goats was visiting my aunt’s farm once. She mentioned that her doe had kidded with twins…so I trotted out to the barn, my interest piqued. There she was, knee-deep in fresh straw, with a lovely velvet matched set of leggy, curious kids. I was hooked.
Yet it was another thirty years before I got around to actually procuring a goat…college, working in the high-tech industry, and then a graduate program didn’t leave much room for animal husbandry. Finally, with six kids, a husband and 6 wild acres to tame, I decided it was time to take that inspirational quote on my bathroom mirror to heart: “Whatever you have always wanted to do—start today!” So I made a list. Returning to my farmgirl roots was at the top. With a 100-foot high cliff claiming part of our 6 acres, there was simply no other way to wrestle the poison oak and wild blackberries into submission—we simply needed goats. (Plus I had heard from two different mothers that their children had overcome chronic severe poison oak reactions from drinking the milk of poison-oak-nibbling goats.)
Our first milk doe was, as I look back now, a divine test of my perseverance. Lovely as she was, with those beguiling velvet ears, she was young and inexperienced. It didn’t help that I also had very little in the experience department. We bought her as a pregnant doe, with no exact due date…and a friend graciously loaned us another doe to keep her company until her kid was born. (I now know what a true friendship it is…I would NEVER loan a goat to someone, knowing what I know now, but that is a different story.)
She had been with us less than a week, when thinking she would enjoy some fresh grass for an hour or so, I led (maybe that’s not quite how I would describe it) her out of her pen with a stall into a little pasture adjacent to it. She was not exactly wild about leaving her pen—in fact, she objected vehemently—but once she was surrounded by fresh greens she nibbled contentedly, so I put out a bucket of water and left her there in the late afternoon sun.
I returned about an hour later to discover a wobbly, wet black kid at her side, to my amazement (this was, of course, pure inexperience…now nothing shocks me with goats—I have discovered that virtually ANYTHING can happen). Nearby I was even more shocked to find another shiny, wide-eyed kid. Scooping up both gently, I led the doe back to the barn and settled them into their quiet stall with soft shavings.
Lest you think this was an idyllic farmgirl experience, let me assure you that milking the doe was another matter entirely. I waited several days to begin, so that the doe and buckling would have plenty of colostrum and early milk, and then the fun began. It could only be described as milking a BUCKING goat…or maybe a RUNNING goat. At any rate, in spite of my persistence and attempts to try various approaches, she was having none of it. It took two of us to hold her still, and even then, no one had their hands free to milk her! Crosstying was to no avail…a tasty bucket of grain was not enough to bribe her…she managed to kick the bucket over even if I managed to get ¼ cup of milk into it. Failing that, she plopped a muddy foot in. The dog was enjoying the whole routine since he received the wasted milk each time. I called in an experienced goat milking friend to determine what I was doing wrong, but she was equally unable to produce results. We finally sold the doe, apologizing to the buyer, with a warning that she was not a ‘beginner’s’ milker. Ironically, I received a glowing report about a month later in an email from the buyer’s husband, a man I had never met, thanking me for the gift of what he called their “new family member”. He raved about the milk, saying they had a bit of a learning curve, but that she now milked like clockwork. I was too delighted to be annoyed.
Yet it was another thirty years before I got around to actually procuring a goat…college, working in the high-tech industry, and then a graduate program didn’t leave much room for animal husbandry. Finally, with six kids, a husband and 6 wild acres to tame, I decided it was time to take that inspirational quote on my bathroom mirror to heart: “Whatever you have always wanted to do—start today!” So I made a list. Returning to my farmgirl roots was at the top. With a 100-foot high cliff claiming part of our 6 acres, there was simply no other way to wrestle the poison oak and wild blackberries into submission—we simply needed goats. (Plus I had heard from two different mothers that their children had overcome chronic severe poison oak reactions from drinking the milk of poison-oak-nibbling goats.)
Our first milk doe was, as I look back now, a divine test of my perseverance. Lovely as she was, with those beguiling velvet ears, she was young and inexperienced. It didn’t help that I also had very little in the experience department. We bought her as a pregnant doe, with no exact due date…and a friend graciously loaned us another doe to keep her company until her kid was born. (I now know what a true friendship it is…I would NEVER loan a goat to someone, knowing what I know now, but that is a different story.)
She had been with us less than a week, when thinking she would enjoy some fresh grass for an hour or so, I led (maybe that’s not quite how I would describe it) her out of her pen with a stall into a little pasture adjacent to it. She was not exactly wild about leaving her pen—in fact, she objected vehemently—but once she was surrounded by fresh greens she nibbled contentedly, so I put out a bucket of water and left her there in the late afternoon sun.
I returned about an hour later to discover a wobbly, wet black kid at her side, to my amazement (this was, of course, pure inexperience…now nothing shocks me with goats—I have discovered that virtually ANYTHING can happen). Nearby I was even more shocked to find another shiny, wide-eyed kid. Scooping up both gently, I led the doe back to the barn and settled them into their quiet stall with soft shavings.
Lest you think this was an idyllic farmgirl experience, let me assure you that milking the doe was another matter entirely. I waited several days to begin, so that the doe and buckling would have plenty of colostrum and early milk, and then the fun began. It could only be described as milking a BUCKING goat…or maybe a RUNNING goat. At any rate, in spite of my persistence and attempts to try various approaches, she was having none of it. It took two of us to hold her still, and even then, no one had their hands free to milk her! Crosstying was to no avail…a tasty bucket of grain was not enough to bribe her…she managed to kick the bucket over even if I managed to get ¼ cup of milk into it. Failing that, she plopped a muddy foot in. The dog was enjoying the whole routine since he received the wasted milk each time. I called in an experienced goat milking friend to determine what I was doing wrong, but she was equally unable to produce results. We finally sold the doe, apologizing to the buyer, with a warning that she was not a ‘beginner’s’ milker. Ironically, I received a glowing report about a month later in an email from the buyer’s husband, a man I had never met, thanking me for the gift of what he called their “new family member”. He raved about the milk, saying they had a bit of a learning curve, but that she now milked like clockwork. I was too delighted to be annoyed.
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