Ella is my problem goat. Chris calls her "Cruella." She is not a mean goat, but naughty. You can see the gleam in her eye, the challenge. "What can I do next?" she seems to ponder. At milking time I bring each goat from the pasture to the garage, where there is a milk stand, a bucket of high dollar grain, and some one on one time. The goats know the drill; which goes first, and who follows, when. They wait at the gate at milking time, when it is their turn. When I open the gate, the goat who is to be milked marches right to the garage and hops up on the stand. Except Ella. She veers to the left to see if the chicken coop door is open, because she might find some chicken crummets to dine on. She veers to the right to see if she can snag a bite of rose bush or hosta. She checks out the picnic table, because maybe there is a decorative potted plant to munch on. And once she does make it to the garage, she investigates the bag of pig food, climbs up on the hay bales, noses around the table where the cat food and water are kept. Bravo knows she is trouble, and dogs her heels, barking in alarm when she is headed for mischief. He barks a lot when Ella is out.
Once on the milk stand, rather than standing quietly and enjoying her meal, she kicks. I tried to thwart the kicking by installing hobbles on the bench. These are soft, nylon bands that I fasten around her rear ankles, (pasterns in goat talk.) They don't hurt in any way, but limit the range her powerful legs can fly when she gets the urge. Fastening the hobbles can be tricky, depending on her mood. She's a big girl, 150 pounds or so, and strong. If she decides she does not want the hobbles on, she dances about, flashing her heels at my knees and chest while I try to buckle her in. Once I have her fastened, I try to milk quickly, because she loses patience with the project, despite the meal before her. She has mastered a move that flummoxes me. She waits, with flawless timing, until I let my guard down. Then she bunches the muscles in her rear legs and with a huge, spasmodic, leap, bucks her hips up. The entire, heavy, milk stand lifts its rear legs up for a fraction of a second, then it comes crashing down. Often, the quarts of warm milk in the bucket slosh out into my lap, and down my legs, and into my shoes. This feels surprisingly icky. Sometimes the stand moves to one side in mid air and lands on my toes. This smarts, mightily.
Friday morning Ella looked a little off. She came in to be milked, and ate. She didn't feel feverish. Her milk production was way down, but her rumen was rumbling reassuringly. telling me she was digesting her food. I put her back in the pasture and tried to keep an eye on her while I worked. She was out and about, acting pretty normal. I did see her lie down, flat on one side, for a few moments. This is not unheard of, but not typical, either. I was on high alert.
Late that afternoon, when work was done, a friend visited. We sat in the back yard with a tray of cheese, crackers and some cranberry mead. Ella kept standing at the empty hay rack like this. Her front feet elevated. It was odd. Once my guest left, I started chores, and when it came time to milk, Ella did not queue up. Chris went out to investigate and thought her abdomen was distended. We brought her in to the milk stand and I agreed. I texted my veterinarian, and bless her, she texted back and gave me advice. I rifled through my goat medicine chest, and was out of pain medication. Luckily my friend had some and was willing to share. So we took a little drive and filled two syringes with goat pain killers. Once home, in the dark, Chris caught Ella, and held a flash light while I injected the medicine. Then, pushed two large syringes of bloat medicine into her unwilling mouth. I went to bed that night not knowing if she'd be dead or alive when I woke up, but was comforted to know she had pain killers coursing through her veins.
She is still alive. Up, hanging with the herd, eating and drinking. But she is not quite right. Time will tell, but I feel like something serious is amiss.
Meanwhile, Abraham and Sarah are bonding. I've seen them play a few times, and they are beginning to groom each other, standing close, and nibbling on each others itchy spots.
Abraham used to sometimes chase the goats and bite them. Not hard, it was clearly all light-hearted play for him, but the goats were not amused. Since Sarah has arrived he has not done that even once. He has a whole new demeanor. And Sarah is calm, quiet and as sweet as a donkey can be.
There is a new level of contentment in the pasture these days. Visitors often remark that this is a "peaceable kingdom," and that is true more now than ever. Sarah has changed the tone of FairWinds in the loveliest of ways.
I am keeping a close watch on Ella, and watching the donkeys, closely, too, because I love to see the contentment that is being created.
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