Days In The Life Of A Dairy Goat Farmer

Fall Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 04:30:00 +0000

As the days shorten, the does grow heavier, their bellies starting to hint at the new life growing inside. Just a few days ago, we started a 'dry' pen, for the goats who have "dried up" or stopped producing milk. So far, just twelve goats are in that pen, but over the next month, it will expand until the entire herd is dried off.
Every year, as we stop milking, I start dreaming about the days to come in January and February, when the snow will fly and the sound of newborns will fill the barn with their tiny bleating cries.The miracle of new life never grows old.

Thirty Dollar Pineapple

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sat, 22 May 2010 23:41:00 +0000

Late last fall, the scrawny colt tripped on his way into the sale ring as the driver's whip snapped behind him. Lifting his head, his dark brown eyes' gaze darted in every direction, searching for a way out. The auctioneers voice crackled, crying in vain for a bid on this three-month-old colt with its dirty yellow coat stretched across washboard ribs.

"Thirty dollars! Thirty dollars! Who'll give me thirty dollars for this palomino? He's got color!"

I nudged my husband in the side. "Quick! Raise your hand before it's too late." I looked around the room. I knew the auctioneer wouldn't cry for long. People were ignoring him, and the door swung open on the far side of the ring. In a moment, the colt would be driven out of the ring, back into the pens, as a "No Sale." At the end of the day, someone with a gun would put him out of his misery.

The auctioneer saw my husband's hand before I did. "Thirty dollars!" he hollered. "Sold!"

We left the ring and finally found our colt crammed into a small hog pen at the very back of the auction building. I stroked his neck and felt the muscles bunch tight beneath my hand. "It's okay, buddy," I crooned, but the white-eyed colt wasn't having any of it. He fought us every step of the way to our horse trailer, and three hours later, we ran him down the alleyway into the back stall of our barn. We shook our heads.

"Pineapple" as my daughter christened him, looked more like a withered yellow squash than his namesake. His spindly legs seemed inadequate to hold him upright.

"Weaned too young," my husband said, and I nodded my agreement. With fall approaching, and grass becoming sparse, many people decided to dump foals at the sale barn, rather than feed them through the long mid-western winter. There's no substitute for a mother's milk, and foals weaned too early can die, no matter how much good feed you put in front of them. Throughout those frigid months we wondered often if we'd done the right thing. We put one of our own weaned foals in the stall to keep him company, and he seemed to enjoy the company. Once he overcame his fear of humans, Pineapple's gentle nature surfaced, and our daughter spent many hours brushing and petting him.

When spring came, we turned the two youngsters into the pasture where they could run, play and grow up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today, I carried hay out of the barn to give to the horses. Even though they spend all day grazing, we like them to come up near the barn each morning so we can check on them.

Pineapple whinnied in greeting, his eyes soft and warm. Beneath the remnants of some lighter woolly hair on his sides, a beautiful coat shines like a golden coin. His body has filled out and his ribs have vanished. I walked up to the gentle colt, and stroked his soft neck, brushing wisps of hay from his white mane.

"You're a pretty boy, aren't you?" I said, as he munched on a mouthful of alfalfa. It's hard to believe this beautiful, young horse is the same half-starved colt we brought home just seven months and I'm sure glad we gave him a chance.

I don't know how long Pineapple will stay here at Rainbow Gate Farm. Often visitors to our farm will fall in love with a particular foal and they are sold, making way for the new crop of babies born each spring. Many are eventually forgotten, but others are etched forever in our hearts.

Pineapple will canter through my memories for a long time to come.

Waiting With Lama

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Thu, 20 May 2010 15:42:00 +0000

Favorites. Everyone has them, and even in a herd of over a hundred dairy goats, there are always a few that stand out. My special girl is an eight-year-old white Saanen doe, called Red. I'm not sure why she's called Red, but she came to us six years ago with that name and it's hers. Red is getting old now, and I wince when I see her walking into the parlor, looking like the caprine equivalent of an old woman. I know her time is coming, but she's had a good life, and she'll stay here until the end.

My daughter's favorite is a young doe called Brownie, and in this case, she is easily identified by her matching color. Brownie comes when you call her name, and I have many stories I could tell about that sweet little goat, but this tale isn't about Red or Brownie. It's about Lama; the goat my son, Sam made a pet of when he still lived at home and helped with chores.

Lama's name was coined from her mother's breeding. She is a cross-bred with the snow-white coat of her Swiss Saanen ancestors and the tiny ears of the American bred La Mancha breed. Hence -- La-Ma which soon became condensed to one word.

Lama is average in every way including her milk production. This year, she is producing just five pounds of milk a day, which means she needs to go down the road, out the door, farewell . . . you get the drift. We aim to keep only does giving eight pounds plus, so when we decided to thin the herd out recently, Lama was marked to be sold.

Knowing Sam had endeared himself to Lama, I called and asked him if he minded. "No, of course not," he said. "If she's not making the grade, you should sell her."

A few days later, Lama ambled through in her usual, not-in-a-particular-hurry way and jumped on the deck to be milked. I thought of the days past, when she would search out my son, and walk to him to be petted, and have her head scratched. She'd always wait on the way out too, because he'd sneak her an extra handful of grain as she left. Even though he's been gone a while now, to this day, when leaving the parlor, she still turns her head and looks, as though she hopes he might walk through the door at any minute.

A lump formed in my throat, and I blurted out to my husband, "I can't sell Lama."

Being the understanding soul he is, he didn't even question me. "Take her out and put her back in the good pen," he said.

For you see, Lama loves Sam. Even though she doesn't get to see him much anymore, she recognized the special qualities of my soldier son, who will deploy this August to fulfill his responsibilities as a soldier-medic in Afghanistan.

In a few months, Lama and I will both be looking toward that door, hoping, waiting and longing for the day my brave, young son walks back through that door, safe home at last.

I'm glad I won't be waiting alone.

A May's Winter Day

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sun, 09 May 2010 01:10:00 +0000

I gaze out over dark brown fields, nestled in borders of green grass. A deep grey sky hovers above, threatening to pour out its heavy burden upon unsuspecting blossoms and newly planted gardens. We've been scampering around all day in coats and sweatshirts, wondering if an unseen wrinkle in time has stolen our summer and slipped us back into November. The weather man tells us to expect snow overnight. He's kidding, right?

Newborn foals huddle against their dams, and goat kids likewise stay closer than usual to their mothers.
A neighbor stops in to tell us that back in the 1800's, the temperatures stayed low all summer long and folks starved to death on the east coast.** That sparks my interest, and as soon as I finish covering up the tomato plants and take the axe down to break up the ice in the water tubs so the animals can drink tonight, I'm going to go look that up. Okay, so maybe I won't need the axe, well, at least not until tomorrow morning.

Please come back, spring. We miss your warm sunshine and blue skies. Stay tuned for more Rainbow Gate Farm updates very soon!

** The summer in question was 1816 -- the year without a summer in New England. It followed the Tambora volcanic eruption in 1815 and caused winter-like summers in the United States and Europe. Killing frosts were recorded on June 10th, July 9th, and August 13th.

Empty Trailers And Dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 02:58:00 +0000

Shouldering shovels and a pitchfork, my helper, Renee and I made our way down to the empty trailer late this afternoon. My daughter's friend, Ellie tagged along to help. The mission: clean out two feet of old sawdust bedding from last spring's baby goats who called the trailer home for the first eight weeks of life.

As we shoveled and scraped and shoveled some more, I looked around the empty room. In my mind's eye I could still see last year's babies running and jumping all over the room. We unearthed a wooden box, half-buried in sawdust, and I placed it to one side, with a smile. It will be back in use this winter, for little goats to take turns playing "King of the Castle" as they fight to knock each other out of the way.

Very soon, the quiet room will be filled with the noise of the automatic milk feeder whirring in the background, as kids bleat and call out when we enter the trailer, stomping the snow and ice from our boots. Baseboard heaters on the wall keep the kid trailer at a comfortable fifty degrees which will seem very warm after the two hundred yard trek across the yard from the dairy barn.

It's a busy time when the babies start arriving. We are only expecting about two-hundred-and-fifty kids over a three month period. It sounds like a lot, but it isn't so bad. Last year, with almost three-hundred dairy goats, we delivered over seven hundred babies and some days, I thought I'd never see the house again.

For now, I will dream of those days to come; of cute baby goats and winter's wonderland, and try not to think about blizzard warnings and the twenty-below temperatures that seem to coincide with the day the does decide to start having babies!

Sophie The Ferret Flies The Coop

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 04:17:00 +0000

I stepped into the garage late last week to discover Sophie the ferret had escaped her cage once more. Her companion, Dillon came running up to greet me. "Don't worry, buddy," I said, scratching his head. "She'll be back." Usually she turns up at our back door, begging to come inside.

Three days later, there was still no sign of Sophie. With the days getting cooler, and the nights leaving light blankets of frost across the pastures, I worried she might have become dinner for some sharp-clawed owl or a stray dog.

Then, the phone call came.

"Are you missing a ferret?" our neighbor asked.

"Yes, we are," I said. "I'll be right down to get her."

Now, this neighbor doesn't live right next door. In the country, your 'neighbor' can live any distance away, and it seems Sophie had traveled way across the corn field to reach their home, at least a quarter mile's walk.
Not bad on tiny little ferret feet.

Before I could leave the house, or the computer, our neighbor's daughter sent me an instant message on Facebook telling me she'd always wanted a ferret and how cute Sophie was.

Hmmm, let's see. A ferret who wants to live inside, and traveled over a hill and across a cornfield to find a friendly house, and a teenage girl who wants a pet ferret. It didn't take me long to decide.

So, now Sophie lives at our neighbors, inside their basement with her new girl. Our other ferret, Dillon seems content to curl up in the basket with our five new kittens each night, and he never runs away. The ferret cage sits empty in the corner of the garage, and I have one less cage to keep clean. I like it!

Fluffy And His Five Mothers

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 23:18:00 +0000

It's quiet around Rainbow Gate Farm right now. So, instead of boring you with the details of uneventful chores, I'm drawing on my FanStory.com archives and digging out stories I wrote earlier this year. Reminds me I'm likely to be digging myself out of snow drifts here in a few months, but meanwhile. . .

"Fluffy And His Five Mothers"

. . . Fluffy came into this world on the heels of his dead brother. Not an amazing way to start life, but he didn't care. Within minutes of being born, he struggled to his feet, and started searching for warm milk.

He soon found a soft udder and began to nurse. His mother bleated and nudged him, but Fluffy kept right on drinking . . . on Hershey, the wrong doe.

Some of our goats could care less when their kids are taken away, but others have strong maternal instincts. Taking their babies away is the least favorite part of my job description.

Those does often decide to adopt another doe's baby. I've even seen them knock the real mother out of the way as soon as the kid hits the ground, so they can take over the newborn's care.

Usually, our baby goats are raised in a heated trailer nearby, where they have access to automatic feeders providing warm milk-replacer around the clock and they quickly adopt us as their two-legged mothers. Right now, Fluffy happens to be the only one we have. The other seven hundred should be arriving any day.

I decided that rather than heating the entire trailer for just one kid, I'd let Fluffy stay with his mother, er, mothers, in the fresh goat pen.

There are five does in there who claim him as their own. Fluffy thinks life is wonderful. More milk than he could possibly drink and five warm bodies to snuggle against.

My eight-year-old daughter, Amber, christened him 'Fluffy' and although his lot should have been heading down the road to the meat market at the tender age of five months, it seems fate has intervened once more. Between Amber and his five devoted mothers, I don't have a snowball's chance in you-know-where of sending him away.

Fluffy will have to endure being castrated in a few months time. Male goats left 'entire' for breeding are one of the most terrible smelling creatures on earth.

At this rate, I may have to quit milking goats and start a sanctuary.

A Never-Ending Cycle

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 17:37:00 +0000

This is an old story from April of this year. It still makes me laugh, which I really need right now, considering we have just switched to once-a-day milking, because the 'girls' are drying up, in preparation for the soon-to-begin kidding season.

"A Never-Ending Cycle"
(originally posted on FanStory.com in April 2009)

Anyone who is familiar with my life story by now knows I milk dairy goats for a living. At times it seems to be all I ever do, taking four hours twice a day just to milk from start to finish. Then there are babies to feed, weaned babies and dry goats (goats who haven't given birth yet) to feed hay, grain and water, goats to bed up with dry cornstalks, new babies to bring in and vaccinate -- it's a never ending cycle.

Last night, still recovering from a flu bug going around this area, my feet were dragging. My son, Sam, started milking but he had to leave to go to his girlfriend's high school play. My other son, Joel, was also in the play, and my husband, Paul, left on a service call for his electrical business.

By the time Paul got home, I'd been milking alone for almost three hours. He told me later he was surprised how many goats were left in the holding pen waiting to be milked, but thought it was understandable considering I'd been feeling under the weather.

We milked a little longer, and noticed some of the goats had very little milk. We were both concerned. There is a virus that can run through a herd, causing almost instant fall in production and our neighbor told us his herd was having problems.

"We'd better call 'Connell' (our vet)," Paul said.

"I agree," I said. "This doe here has hardly any milk at all."

Several hours later, I went and chased the last group into the parlor. As my husband finished up, I went into the barn to fill the water tubs by the far edge of the holding pen. To my surprise, the holding area was full of goats!

It was then I saw it. The gate that separates the goats who are already milked from the ones waiting to be milked was not properly chained shut, leaving an eight-inch gap, just big enough for goats to leave the milking parlor, walk back around the corner, and squeeze back into the holding area.

Yes, we'd been milking the same goats twice. For two extra hours. They love coming into the parlor to get the grain we feed while they are standing to be milked, so they were having a wonderful time!

And I sometimes wonder why I never get anything else done.

Chicks Ahoy!

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 18:54:00 +0000

The sound of cheeping greeted me this morning as I walked downstairs to start chores. Grabbing the flashlight, I peeked inside the cabinet incubator sitting at the base of the stairs, and sure enough, five Black-Copper Maran chicks were waddling around inside.

The Black Copper Maran is a French breed, and very rare, so the hatch is exciting! The hens lay a dark brown, almost chocolate-colored egg. I bought these eggs from a breeder in another state, who shipped them to me to hatch. Many folks who visit here are amazed to learn that an egg can be sent through the mail and still grow a chick three weeks later.

These chicks are coal black with white chests, and feathered feet -- cute as buttons. I have six older Maran chicks already outside in the hen house, so these little guys will be joining them in a few weeks.

Four more eggs to go, and one is already pipping the shell, meaning its little beak has broken through. Now it must twist and turn all the way around the shell, continuing to break it open. As tempting as it becomes to want to help a struggling chick, being able to hatch by themselves seems to be an essential key to survival. If the chick isn't strong enough to hatch, there is something wrong, and helping it out of the shell makes for a miserable time watching it slowly die. Don't ask me how I know.

The chicks hatch soaking wet, and will remain in the incubator for the rest of the day, drying off. Right before hatching, the chicks absorb the remainder of the egg yolk into their bellies. When a hen hatches chicks naturally in a nest, she often waits on the nest for several days waiting for all the eggs to hatch. The first ones to hatch must wait for the latecomers. This will provide them with all the nutrition they need for the next two days.

Tonight, we'll put the dry chicks under a heatlamp, with water and chick-starter food in dishes nearby. The heatlamp takes the place of the real mother, and the chicks' natural instinct to find food and water will take care of the rest!

In five short months these tiny chicks will be out in the barn laying eggs or crowing with the sunrise, and starting the cycle all over again. It never grows old watching it happen. Guess that's why I live on a farm!

The Adventures Of Sophie The Ferret

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 16:44:00 +0000

Rats are not my favorite creatures on this planet. Recently, several large specimens decided to join us here on Rainbow Gate Farm. Ugh!

"I have a great idea. Buy a ferret!" one of our friends suggested. "They hunt rats and kill them, and any remaining ones will leave the farm."

So began our ferret quest, and within a week, we had become the proud owners of not one, but two ferrets, Sophie and Dillon. They came complete with a large cage, and an assurance that they were "house-broken and litter-trained."

It took us all of a few hours to realize that our definition of "house-broken and litter-trained" was slightly different from that of the ferrets' previous owners. Silly me. I didn't know it meant they used the entire house as a litter tray!

Along with their musky odor, the idea of having these two rascals as indoor pets quickly lost its attraction. We moved their cage into the garage, but I felt sorry for them being locked up, so we transferred them to the big aviary cage in the barn.

Now, ferrets chase rats down very tiny holes. This should have been my first clue. The next morning, there was only one ferret, Dillon in the aviary. Sophie was gone. We searched the barn, and the farm, but there was no sign of her. We moved Dillon back to the cage in the garage.

Five days passed, and still no Sophie. The weather is changing quickly here in Iowa, and I worried about her, hoping she had found somewhere warm to curl up, and lots of mice and rats to feast on!

The next night, my son, Joel, heard an odd noise at the back door. It was one in the morning but he got up, and went to check it out. There was Sophie, scratching on the glass door! I can't be certain, but I think Joel said he heard her say, "Let me in, it's cold out here!"

Most people would have learned the first time, but last night, we decided to re-locate the ferrets to the trailer house where we raise all the baby goats when they are born in January. We blocked off all the holes, shut the windows and doors, and let them loose.

"Go! Be free and find mice, rats and other wonderful creatures to eat!" I exclaimed, as we left the trailer to go milk the goats.

Walking across in the dark two hours later, my helper, Renee, said, "I just saw a ferret!"

Sure enough, Dillon was scampering across the yard, toward the horse pasture. We picked him up and searched for Sophie, but she was nowhere to be found.

This morning, I took the flashlight with me when I headed out to milk in the dark, and searched again, but no Sophie. My husband laughed, and said, "She's probably headed back for the house."

Which is exactly where we found her a few hours later, trying to get in the back door.

Now we own two ferrets, who eat expensive ferret food, and couldn't care less about hunting rats. I think I saw a rat doing a victory dance across from the grain bin this morning.

Anyone else have any great ideas?

Fall Preparation on the Farm.

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 20:55:00 +0000

Fall is a busy time here on Rainbow Gate Farm. Even though the goats are 'winding down' for the year, their swollen bellies tell us it won't be long before the barn is ringing with the sound of newborn babies. We're cleaning out barns, and hauling the manure on the surrounding fields to help fertilize next year's crops of corn, soybeans and hay.

In the first week of December, we will "dry-off" all the milking does -- or quit milking them. A lot of them beat us to it, by drying up by themselves.
Their bodies need the preparation time to concentrate on feeding the growing kids inside. Most goats have twins or triplets, and quadruplets are not unheard of. About the middle of January, the babies will begin arriving and then the whole year's process of raising babies and milking their dams begins once again.

My rare-breed chickens are done with their yearly moult. I turned the timers back on yesterday, so the chicken barn has swung into full summer hours, with the lights coming on at 5am and shutting off at 10pm. This tricks the 'girls' into thinking it is summer, and they will begin to lay eggs again. Although we eat some of these eggs, most of them will be collected for sale on eBay as 'hatching eggs'. You can check out our different rare breeds of chicken on our website at this address
http://www.rainbowgatefarm.com

Just navigate to the Rare-Breed Poultry page.

It's almost time to start evening chores. My helper, Renee, will be arriving in about an hour to help me prepare for milking.

Tomorrow I'll be working again with a yearling horse colt we are boarding here. He's a cremello Tennessee Walker and will be used for breeding in the future. When he arrived on the farm, he hadn't been handled much, and was nervous of people. Because he will remain a stallion, it's imperative we teach him manners, how to lead, and tie up, so he doesn't become dangerous or mean.

Chicken Barns And Baby Mice

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 15:10:00 +0000

Our rare breed chickens reside above one of our smaller barns. Every fall, when my husband cleans the barn below, we open the trap-doors in the floor and scrape out all the old bedding/chicken manure onto the cement below, so it can be hauled away as fertilizer.

Where you have chickens, and grain, you are also guaranteed to have mice and as we cleaned and shoveled, we disturbed several nests. As their shelter was disturbed, the mice would scatter in all directions, fleeing for the cracks and holes along the walls of the chicken coop.

My helper, Renee and I were laughing at the neat arrangement of discarded chicken feathers lining one such nest, when we noticed movement. Inside the destroyed home were about a dozen, tiny pink bodies, squirming around -- baby mice!

"They are so tiny. They can't be more than a few days old," I said.

"Now what will happen to them?" Renee asked. "Their mother ran off into that hole over there." She pointed toward the wall.

Trying not to think about the many times I'd set traps and laid bait to try and rid our barn of these grain-eating pests, I carefully scooped up the babies in my gloved hand, feathers and all. Laying them by the hole, I said, "Watch them. I'll bet their mama is going to come back for them."

Sure enough, a few seconds later, a furry grey head poked out of the hole. She looked at us, trembling, but she ran from the hole, grabbed a baby and vanished back into the wall. She re-appeared, and saved another one of her infants. Within a minute, she had rescued every single baby, relocating them to a new place safe from our clutches.

That mother mouse will never know that this mother saluted her. In the face of grave danger, and extreme fear, she came back for her children and risked her own life to save them.

What's a little grain in the face of such love?

Snow Flurries and Pregnant Goats

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 16:09:00 +0000

Frost covers the ground now as I walk outside to start chores at five every morning. The weather man speaks of snow flurries soon to be flying here in the midwest. Our goats, being seasonal breeders, are now pregnant, and before long the sound of bleating will fill our old dairy barn, as hundreds of newborn goats enter a cold and wintery world.

The "girls" (our goat does) are a little cantankerous right now, and spend more time picking at each other than eating their grain when they enter the parlor to be milked each morning and night. Their bellies are beginning to show signs of growing new life, and by early January, they will be lumbering around with the weight of two to three kids inside. As busy a time as "kidding season" is for us, I can hardly wait!

It's Raining Baby Goats!

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 19:27:00 +0000

The babies keep coming! We had eighteen more little goats born today. I took photos, now I have to get them downloaded and posted! They are so cute. The three and four day old babies bounce around their pen, giving entirely new meaning to the phrase "bouncing off the walls!" I put a small wooden box in the pen for them to play with, and they jump up and down playing "King Of The Castle" all day long.

Taking care of their mothers is a full time job right now. As each goat gives birth, she is allowed to clean off her babies and take care of them for the day, as long as the temperature is warm enough.

At night, we bring the mother goats or does in to the milking parlor, and milk out any remaining colostrum milk to feed to the kids. Each doe is wormed with a pour-on de-wormer, and her toenails are trimmed while she stands on the deck and eats grain. She is offered a warm drink of water with a special energy solution made with sweet-smelling molasses. Most does drink it right down.

The doe is marked with non-toxic spray across her back to show the date she "kidded" or gave birth. For the first two days, she is milked out by hand. Then on the third day, she is added to the general milking line, where her milk will be transferred to the 'bulk-tank' to be cooled. The milk is picked up by a big truck every four days and transported to the creamery where it will be made into delicious goat cheese.

Our goats are milked twice a day at 5.30am and 5.30pm. We have nine automatic milking units that we put on each goat. When all of the goats finally have their babies, it will take about three hours each time to milk, plus a further hour or so to feed hay.
Hard work and lots of it, but I love my job.

Jan

Warm Enough To Snow!

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 00:15:00 +0000

Woo Hoo! It's warmed up enough that it can actually snow! Today's high was somewhere in the 25 degree F range and it started snowing those soft, white flakes a few hours ago. Sure beats that twenty below zero weather we were having a few days ago.

The goat kids keep on coming. A set of triplets born late last night, then a set of twins and a single so far today. All bucklings (boys) except one of the triplets, who is a doeling (girl).

It's exhausting, but rewarding. We have about twenty goats milking now, but still have 330 does to kid!

Woo Hoo!

Jan

Baby Goats At Last!

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 03:29:00 +0000

Today, of all days, with the temperature at the near-record twenty-five below zero, our goats decided to start kidding in earnest. Thank heavens only three sets of babies were born. Two sets of triplets and one set of twins.

Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!

Peggy's Story

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 12:51:00 +0000

Having almost four hundred head of livestock, means accidents are going to happen. Several months ago, a yearling goat decided to try her skills at gate-jumping. She failed the class, getting her front leg caught in the top panel of the wire gate and snapping it in half. We found her hanging upside down in the gate.

In livestock, if the break is a 'simple' fracture (no bone protruding through the skin) we can have our local vet cast the broken limb, and our success rate with these fractures has been 100%.

When the broken bone has pierced the skin, the prognosis is very poor. Even if you spend the hundreds of dollars to have the bone pieced back together and pinned, infection takes over, and the animal dies.

It might seem harsh, but a farmer has to take into account the market value of each animal on the farm. A yearling doeling like Peggy is worth approximately $200. It made no sense to spend hundreds of dollars over her value, with such a poor prognosis.

Two options remained. Euthanize her or splint the leg, and see what happened.

We decided on the latter. It's not as easy a choice as one might think. For weeks, we watched Peggy hobble around. The pain affected her appetite and she lost weight, despite our extra efforts to supplement her feed. Last week, I noticed her touching her hoof to the ground. This was encouraging and I hoped it meant the leg was healing. She started eating more again.

To my shock, several days later, I noticed the splinted leg hanging from just below the knee, by one tendon. Peggy had knocked the bandage away. Her leg was falling off.

I climbed into the pen, and removed the dangling leg. The stump did not bleed, and was not infected. I sprayed some antiseptic on the stump end, and brought Peggy up to a pen right next to our milk house where we keep the does who have already freshened (given birth) She seemed relieved to be rid of her dead leg, and began to frolic around.

Peggy's loss of a leg might seem like a tragedy, but in reality, it's a blessing in disguise. Peggy is a cross between an Oberhasli and a Saanen. Although Saanens are bigger, she inherited her Oberhasli mother's small frame, and smaller does don't tend to produce enough milk to make the grade.

This first year, when she freshened, she would have been evaluated for her production level, and culled out of the herd if she didn't produce five pounds or more of milk. Five pounds is the minimum production we accept from any doe, because otherwise, they are not paying for their upkeep.

Culled does are sent to the sale barn, where buyers purchase them for the various ethnic markets who enjoy goat meat.

This will not be Peggy's fate. We seem to have a soft spot for cripples around this place. Peggy will join our other three-legged goat, Gimpy, as a permanent mascot of Rainbow Gate Farm. No matter how little milk she produces, she will grow up, live and die right here on our farm. With the constant attention and extra grain, she is becoming very friendly and looking good. Peggy is one terrific goat!

I'm teaching Peggy how to use a computer now, so I'm certain she'll be back to share more of her life stories with you on Rainbow Gate Farm.

Let The Birthing Begin!

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 04:19:00 +0000

The kidding season for 2009 has officially started with the birth of a live buckling tonight. We had four does kid prematurely, which really worried us. After a few days of holding our breath and conferring with the vet, we were relieved to have an on-time and live birth.

I am now milking five does by hand. Only 345 left to kid or give birth!

Freak Out At Rainbow Gate Farm

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 04:08:00 +0000

The sound of barking dogs jarred against the rhythmic sound of automatic milkers and Chris Tomlin singing Jesus Messiah, just after five thirty this morning as I worked alone in our milking parlor. Peering out the open window, I squinted, trying to see past the dim light exuding from the barn into the tar pit of darkness beyond.

I'd already milked over one hundred goats so the area where they wait was half empty. To my surprise, the does were running, flowing in a mass of brown, white and black around the pen."What on earth is the matter with you?" I asked the frantic goats.

It's still dark each morning at five, when Sparky, our Australian Shepherd trots behind me to the barn to help me herd the does into the holding area where they stand beneath the twinkling stars, chewing their cud and waiting their turn to come in and be milked. I sing along to the radio without reservation and I've never had a goat complain. By the time my husband and boys appear to feed hay and water, the sun is budding over the horizon, and I'm hanging the milker units in the milk house to be washed and sanitized.

Except today, in that pre-dawn emptiness, when fear crept in to keep me company. I hollered at the dogs to hush up, and turned away from the window to change a milking unit to a different goat. At that moment, I heard a sound I will never forget. What the heck was that?In the few seconds it took my grey-matter to complete a google search, my circulatory system iced down. Or, if you prefer the old cliché, my blood ran cold. I remembered where I'd heard that sound before and I knew what it was.

A cougar's scream.I slammed the window down and shut the parlor door. That scream echoed in my ears; a screeching harmony of a cat being strangled mixed with a baby-like wail trailing off at the end. Staring through the glass, I could see the goats, now statues all facing the same direction and staring into the dark pasture beyond the barn. The dogs were no longer barking. I prayed they were still alive. Different scenarios played out in my imagination, each one of them equal to the scariest movie you can imagine. Unless the thought of being torn apart by an over sized cat doesn't bother you at all. It bothers me.

If my muse, Lydia, hadn't interrupted, I might still be standing there. She wasn't fazed, of course. There's something to be said for being a figment of a writer's imagination to make you immune to fear and taxes.

Leaning against the wall, Lydia sighed. "Just milk the goats, will you? I want to get some more work done this morning, and we do have to get to the gym."

"But I have to open the door to let more goats in. What if it attacks?"

"Jani, no self-respecting cougar is going to pass over a hundred delicious goats just to eat you. Trust me. You will see him in time to shut the door."

With visions of a yellow furred and whiskered face appearing in the window at any moment, I followed Lydia's advice. After the first group, I cracked the window just a tad, but not big enough for a cougar to crawl through. When the sun cast its first rays through the clouds, I opened the door, which is positively big enough for a cougar to stroll right through, but by this time, Lydia's confidence was rubbing off.

By seven, all the goats were milked and chores were finished. I'm thrilled to report, the goats, the dogs and I survived unscathed.

Heading inside, I jumped on the computer and typed "Cougars in Iowa" in the search box. Sure enough, after being re-introduced into our state, these majestic predators have been working their way east from the initial repopulating area in the northwest of the state.

Several reliable sightings were recorded one county over from ours, two years ago. Dusk and dawn sightings were most prevalent.

So, about tomorrow morning. Any volunteers?

If you like reading these stories about my farm. . .

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 02:51:00 +0000

. . . please also visit my story page on my Rainbow Gate Farm website, where you will find links to a lot more of my writing.

http://rainbowgatefarm.com/JanilousCorner.html

Autumn's Wicked Lullaby

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 02:30:00 +0000

Each morning now, my old friend, Jack Frost, nips my cheeks as I step outside just before the sunrise butters the horizon. Hugging my sweatshirt, I hurry to the barn, where the goats greet me with a chorus of bleats and snorts. After filling seven buckets half-way with grain, enough for each group of twenty-one goats, I stop to feed the kittens meowing in the entryway of the parlor.

Next stop, the milk-house, to run hot water into the steel sink where the milking units lie waiting. After pouring in a dose of sanitizer, I flip the switch for the milker pump, and let it run through the pipelines and back into the sink. It needs ten minutes to kill any bacteria in the line, so I leave it running and walk outside to the holding area.

From here, the view is superb. The rolling hills are weeping leaves in the brisk wind, leaving rivers of autumn tones across the pasture. Several of our horses graze the remnants of green grass, so abundant just a few short weeks ago. If you have to shovel manure, you might as well do it with a view, and grabbing the manure scraper, I soon have the cement yard clean of mud and goat droppings.

Once that job is complete, it's time to shut the pump off and drain the sanitizing solution out of the line. I carry each milking unit out to the parlor, and plug it into the pipeline. First the tubing where the milk will flow, and then the air-hose for vacuum.

Sparky, my Australian Shepherd, waits at my feet, eyes sparkling, tongue lolling in an ever-present grin. He loves his job. "Come on, boy," I say. We enter the barn, and slide the door to the holding area open. As I open the gate, Sparky starts barking and the goats run through the door. Sparky dashes to the back of the pen, rounding up any stragglers.

When the last goat is through the door, he sits and waits, daring them to try and come back in the barn. They know better these days, and I slide the door shut without incident. Sparky looks across the barn at the goats who remain on the other side in the "Dry Pen" and whines.

"It's okay, boy," I say. "They aren't milking right now." Of our 250 adult does, half are no longer milking and are what we call "dry". They are pregnant and will be giving birth by late December. As their pregnancy progresses, their body signals a "slow down" on the milk production and they give less and less each day. When this happens, we mark these does with green ink, and milk them once a day for about a week. This gives their bodies another signal to cease making milk. Then we put them in the dry pen so they can focus on growing the new life inside of them and prepare for the next milking season.

Putting the radio on to my favorite station, Life 101.9, I let a group of goats into the parlor, and switch on the pump. It only takes an hour and all the does are milked. I carry all the milking units back into the milk-house and place them in the sink.

After washing off any mud, they are hooked back up to be washed with hot water and a special pipeline detergent. Finally a solution of milk-stone-remover and acid rinse is run through the lines and they are drained until tonight.I hose down the parlor deck where the goats stood, and head upstairs to the top of the barn where we store the sweet-smelling alfalfa hay.

After forking down two huge piles through feeding holes in the floor, I run back downstairs and spread it up and down the mangers in the dairy barn. Soon, every goat is lined up eating hay.

Then it's off to the smaller barns where over one-hundred-and-forty yearling female goats called doelings are waiting for their breakfast of hay and grain. These young does will give birth in early 2009 and join the milking herd, bumping our total number of milking does to almost four hundred next year. Most of our does will give birth to twins, with the occasional set of triplets and some singles.

Math never has been my strongest subject, but I believe this means we are expecting somewhere in the vicinity of seven or eight hundred baby goats this year, all to be born between late December, 2008 and April, 2009. Our weather man warned us this morning to expect snow flurries this Monday.

Last year, snow fell by Thanksgiving and never left until April. We keep our baby goats (kids) in two old trailer houses. They have to be cleaned out and bedded-up with fresh sawdust, which will give our three teenagers something really exciting to do this weekend.

Even though we have electric heaters and automatic feeders in the kid trailers, the biggest challenge is collecting the babies before they freeze at birth. Here in the Midwest, United States of America, our temperatures can stay below zero for weeks on end through the winter months. Add mountains of ice and regular snow storms, and I wonder once again why I ever chose to live in Iowa.

It's time to start boarding up windows and hauling the old tarp out of storage to cover up the open end of the barn. Winterizing is essential if we want livestock, not deadstock. While most does are excellent mothers and try to lick their babies dry, some plop their offspring onto the straw and walk away without so much as a backward glance.

On the coldest days, I have about five minutes to reach the soaking-wet newborns and run them back to the milk-house to be dried off and fed their mother's colostrum. If I don't get to them fast enough, their ears freeze and fall off about a week later.

It's simple enough until twenty does all decide to give birth to twins and triplets in the space of one hour. Having licked their babies dry, they walk across to someone else's kids and claim them, too. I will bring one round of babies in and go out to find fifteen more waiting for me.

The boy babies (bucklings) out of the top milk producing does and each female baby goat (doelings) are given a Velcro collar with their date of birth, future identification number and parents' names written on it with a permanent marker. The Velcro collar can be adjusted as they grow.

Once they reach eight weeks, they receive an ear tattoo with the same number.While I'm enjoying the beautiful scenery and the slow-down pace around the farm, Autumn's gentle lullaby is deceptive. Her days are mild and the scenery is superb, but we all know her husband is a foul-tempered beast and I hear his voice howling in the distance.

Let him come. We'll be ready.

A Glimpse Of Heaven

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 02:49:00 +0000

I leaned against the door of the barn and looked out across the green cornfields at a clear blue sky dotted with cotton-wool clouds. It may have been the hazy day or my tired eyes, but all I

could see were tiny, shimmering circles of light cascading down from the heavens.

I watched in amazement, hoping whatever visual oddity this was, it wouldn't vanish too soon.Then I noticed while most of the light circles were coming down, some floated up into the sky. It's like watching prayers, I thought.

What if those shimmering circles are the answers to prayers being sent to God? Our prayers float up to God, and His love cascades down upon us even when we can't see it. We live in a world full of invisible, technological wonders. I accept the presence of satellite signals shooting down from the sky to a metal dish on the side of my house and don't give a moment's thought to the process while I watch my favorite television shows. I talk to my family, thousands of miles away over the ocean, on a cell-phone, and I don't need to see those conversations flowing through the sky to know they are real.

Of all generations, why does ours still need to see to believe? I'm quite thankful for my earthly sight, when it comes to dust mites, bacteria and viruses. If we could literally see everything in the air as we walked around, we might all live in glass bubbles! I think there is a good reason why God gave us limited vision.

Here on earth we see through a glass, darkly, the Bible tells us. We cannot imagine the true wonders of heaven or see the world the way God does. Sometimes we are given a glimpse of the glory of God when someone taking their last breath, opens their eyes wide and says, "Oh, it's so beautiful." I heard one of those stories last night on the radio, and it gave me goosebumps. I could almost see those angels carrying her home in their gentle embrace.

When I think of those beautiful circles of light, I am reminded of God's love for us and His presence. He is with us every moment of every day. He loves us that much. He loves you that much and He does hear your prayer, the cry from your broken heart. Be still and know. . . Emmanuel - God is with us.

Author Notes1 Corinthians 13:12 - For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

Please forgive the formatting problems on this post. For some reason it is not posting properly!

Goats For Hire

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 02:44:00 +0000

The other day on the radio, the commentator explained the difference between poor and broke. "Poor is a state of mind that will keep you there forever," he said. "Broke is a temporary situation, able to be changed if you try hard enough. It's all in your mind-set."

Okay, I'm broke. Rising fuel and livestock costs have brought us to the brink of disaster in the goat milk production business. Our does eat one large square bale of hay a day. The same bale we bought last year for $45 now costs $70 to $100. They eat four pounds of grain a day. I won't bore you with the details. Grain has tripled in price. Those of you familiar with the Rainbow Gate Farm goats know how much they care about me. The rest of you are about to find out.

Yesterday, I went to the barn. The girls were gone! Imagine my shock when I found this note nestled in the hay: Dear Jani,We know times are hard. They must be. You have cut back the amount of grain you feed us! Normally we would simply kidnap you again, or stop milking altogether. But we heard you talking to your two-legged mate about having to sell the farm. We know really bad things happen to goats who leave their farm, and besides - we've grown fond of you.

Please look outside and you will discover our new second job! That's right! We are now officially the "Roofing & Construction Does of Rainbow Gate Farm!" No job too steep. No need to take out expensive insurance. We never fall! We never fail! Love from Cinderella, Egg-Yolk, Red, and 247 other does who wish to remain anonymous.

So all my problems are solved. I plan to put up fliers everywhere, then sit back and wait for the calls to come rolling in. Of course, with their sharp hooves and tendency to nibble anything they can fit in their mouths, I might be better off renting them out as demolition workers.

Just look at those girls on top of the barn roof! It's such a relief. For a while there, I thought I might have to get a real job!

Bye, Bye, Barbie

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 18:49:00 +0000

We watched the buckskin foal, Blondie, frolicking in the summer breeze across the pasture, far from the safety of her mother's side. "I've never seen such a young foal stray so far from its mother," I commented to my husband.

Paul nodded. "It's the weirdest thing," he agreed.

We stood watching Blondie a little longer before heading to the barn to milk our goats. This petite filly was Barbie's third baby in the five years we'd owned her. Her first two foals, both boys, were sold when they were weaned.

We bought Barbie at a local horse sale in 2003 for our daughter to ride. Her previous owner sang her praises, but anyone familiar with horse sales knows it is "buyer beware". In this case, the seller was truthful. It wasn't long before we discovered what a dream pony Barbie really was. My daughter learned to ride on this patient equine babysitter.

Every year in the fall, children visiting the local tractor and antiques show would line up for a free ride on the "chocolate pony with the pink saddle." Barbie let children sit on her back for hours on end, and she never misbehaved. She also attended multiple birthday parties, giving town children an opportunity to ride a pony, often for the first time ever.

At a recent sale, I caught up with her original owner, and was able to tell her how much we adored the sweet pony she'd sold us. We breed and sell horses for a living and many times, people asked us to 'name our price' for Barbie.

Ponies like her are hard to find. I would smile and say, "You can't afford her. She's priceless." We displayed her photo on our Rainbow Gate Farm website, with the caption, "Barbie will never be for sale."

On Rainbow Gate Farm, foals are not handled much until after they are weaned from their mothers. We like to let them learn "horse manners" from their mother and the other horses in the herd. Mares ' breed back' (become pregnant again) sometime in the first few months after their foal is born. At six to eight months of age, we "wean" them gradually.

This transition time is usually a tough time for the foal. We bring their dams back to the foal each night for a week, and then every second day for a little longer. Then it's time for the dam to concentrate her energy on the growing foal inside her belly, and for her weaned foal to learn about people.During those first six months with their dams, it is unusual for the foal to stray far from her side. Mama is their security from predators, and their only source of affection and nutrition.

Blondie's behavior was odd for her age. The only time Blondie stayed by her mother's side was to nurse. Once satisfied, she would take off exploring once more. None of us could have imagined at the time, this unusual trait would save her life.

For the past several months, severe thunderstorms have been rolling in across the green corn fields of our county. These storms are often brief, but very intense with continuous lightning and hail. No sooner does one storm end, than another is building up on the horizon. Three months ago, we moved Barbie and her two-month-old baby girl, Blondie, to our neighbor's pasture with several other horses we own. There are several barns where the horses can seek shelter from severe weather. Barbie didn't like being outside in storms, and was usually the first one in the barn when the raindrops began to fall.

One afternoon, our neighbor called us to say a horse was dead in the pasture. We rushed up the road to discover our dear Barbie collapsed in knee-deep grass, with Blondie circling around her. Blondie touched her nose to her mother's side over and over again, unable to understand why her mother didn't get up. A quick examination revealed a large burn mark on Barbie's right cheek. Her eyes were dislocated. Lightning had struck the ground next to where she grazed, and the wet grass became the conductor for the electricity to enter her body. The way her legs were buckled underneath her told us she'd died instantly.

Blondie wouldn't let us near her. With five people helping, we were able to run her up into the barn and lasso her. Once she was caught we put a halter on her head and trailered her back to our home farm. We put her into a large stall, with hay, grain and fresh water, and she nibbled the food, giving us hope she will make the transition to solid food successfully. Two months is far too young for a foal to lose its mother's milk, but they can survive if given enough high quality substitutes. We may offer her goat's milk to help boost her calcium levels and protect those growing bones.

Within a half hour of being home, the distraught foal decided Amber and I might make pretty decent surrogate mothers after all. She started following us around and nuzzling us. We brought her out into the sunshine and let her nibble grass on the lawn. She looked around and whinnied for her mother, but of course, there was no answer.

Every time I look at Blondie, I think back to the day we stood and wondered why she didn't stay next to her mother, like normal foals. How thankful I am for her "oddness." A normal foal standing right next to her mother in the wet grass would have been killed by the lightning bolt that took her dam's life. Even in a storm, Blondie was far enough away to be saved.

Our eight-year-old daughter is naturally very upset about her pony's death. But our Barbie lives on through her sweet daughter, Blondie, who will one day take her place at the fair, giving pony rides to children who love horses as much as we do.

Oh, and by the way, don't ask, because Blondie will never be for sale.

Frazzled!

noreply@blogger.com (Janilou) — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 18:38:00 +0000

Having spent twenty minutes showing our guests around the farm, we paused by the goats' pasture, where all two-hundred-and-forty of our milking does grazed in the warm sunshine.

"So," the woman standing beside me said. "You don't have a job, then. You just stay here on the farm."Excuse me? my brain interjected, while my lips threatened to break out in hysterical laughter.

"No, I don't," I stammered. "I milk the goats."I milk the goats? What kind of a lame answer is that? my brain roared.

Shrugging her shoulders, our visitor climbed into her car. "Must be nice," she added.

Watching them drive away, I glanced at my grinning husband."She didn't mean it that way," he said, standing at a safe distance."Yes she did!" Yes she did! my brain and I shouted.

You had to hear the words spoken. The tone of voice, the inferring smirk. Perhaps she is right. All I do each day is crawl out of bed at six in the morning and head to the barn to set up for morning milking. I'm in the door again by, oh, about eleven to grab some breakfast, now that kidding season is over.

During kidding season, I ate my meals in the barn, where I belonged. A mere five hours of being outside enjoying life on the farm, while I milk all two-hundred-and-forty milking goats, and then feed, water and care for the one-hundred-and-fifty baby goats, twenty horses and one-hundred chickens, ducks and turkeys, give or take a rooster or two, that also live on our farm.

My husband is a self-employed electrician and contractor. I'm his secretary, book-keeper and general go-fer. In other words I 'go-fer' this and I 'go-fer' that. The sales people at Menards, Lowes and FarmTek know me by name. This task usually involves driving long distances and subsequently delivering electrical or plumbing parts to whatever job site he is working at on a given day.

But not every day. So that isn't work. Work is something you do every day. I should be ashamed of myself, really, not having a job. Five people live in this house and only three of those are children or teenagers. This week, one of those children is in swimming lessons, and one is in driver's education, both of which mean a trip to town. That is the least I can do, seeing as I don't have a job.

By mid afternoon, after squeezing in a few hours as a housewife doing laundry and dishes, I find myself back outside enjoying that country air. Waterers need filling, animals need checking, and the possibility always exists that the sneaky fence-defying pony is out in the corn field again. Gosh, look at the clock! It's almost six in the evening and time to start the evening chores.

Chores? Did I say chores? Excuse me, I meant the evening leisure time, where I get to go out and spend three to four hours milking the goats again, feeding and watering everyone and gazing at the moon as I trudge back to the house around nine or ten.I almost forgot. I'm looking after our neighbor's ninety-year-old grandma this week and have to dash down there and help her get ready for bed. It's only a five-minute drive each way. She is a wonderful lady. I hope I'm as agile as she is, if I live to be ninety. Visiting with her is the highlight of my day -- no kidding!

When I get back, I will don rubber boots once more, so I can go outside and play farmer some more.It's ridiculous. This nine to ten hours a day of lazing around the farm has to stop! I'm going to start searching the classifieds for gainful employment.

Tomorrow.

In all my spare time, yawn. . . . Zzzz.