Saturday, December 8, 2012

George T. Good

     George snuck up on us.  Yes, there were warning signs.  Days before, George's mother-to-be had been grunting (" unnhh, unnhh")--noises that point to a delivery in the next couple of weeks.  And the very afternoon, the does had been acting a little strange, staying out of the barn when they are usually ready to pile in and settle down.  Still, it came down to a "What's that over there?" moment--and there he was.  Some deliveries are rough, and the mother needs help and calls out desperately.  But some happen between one moment and the next.  The mother cleans off the new arrival(s) and then either defends their space or just walks away.  Sometimes it falls to Monty the Great Pyrenees guard dog to look after babies born out in a pasture, until someone with hands comes along.  George appeared quietly in the barn, leaving us to wonder whether the does' strange behavior was caused by his arrival (and his mother's space-defending) or if it was just goats being weird.
     George's birth was weeks after the last other birth here, so the other kids (about ten others right now) were a little too big for George to play with--we thought.  So the other kids got their meals from the nipple bucket--a kitty litter bucket that Mary fitted with six nipples and hoses--while George got his from the baby bottle, with the special extra-wide opening to prevent baby goat frustration.
     That lasted maybe a week.  One day George was wandering around the barn when Mary was feeding four of the older kids with the nipple bucket.  Understand, we stopped our controversial "breeding for intelligence" program years ago, as the unintended consequences began to accumulate.  "Smart" and "goat" can be a really bad combination--not quite as bad as the bio-engineered sharks in that deep sea movie, but still pretty bad.  And it can be amusing, in a "years later, walking again, insurance company acknowledges that this sort of thing really is covered by the umbrella policy" sort of way.
     Still, while George was slow to catch on to the baby bottle idea, he figured out the nipple bucket in two shakes, and he started hanging with the other kids, even though he looked to be only half their size.  And after that, it was a trial for him to be separated from his buds, so he joined the smaller group for eating and sleeping, and that was that.  He still makes way for those hulking monsters (the older kids), but he keeps right up.
     Kid goats need space to run and things to climb on.  They seem to grow faster  when they can run and jump.  When they have to be inside, a bag full of pine shavings launches a game of King of the Mountain.  With the weather so mild here lately, there is no reason not to have them all out and about--up on a pile of wood chips, along the fallen tree, chasing around the curved driveway up to the barn, up and down the ramps outside the milking parlor, jumping sideways just because they can.
     Of course George has been making the celebrity rounds.  He's been to two farmers markets--East Atlanta Village and Peachtree Road--so far.  Market strollers with children and/or dogs can't avoid stopping by for a sniff and a pat.  Mary had promised the folks at our bank that she would bring a little goat by, and George didn't mind being carried through the lobby, being petted and photographed.
     George is still the smallest kid, but he won't be for very much longer.  We have other does due, so eventually he will have little cousins to boss around just a little.  He still hasn't gotten to know Igor the barn cat, who appreciates a good snuzzle and who isn't above a just-pretend head-butting contest.  And he hasn't yet taken the opportunity to check out the chickens as they scratch in the barn.  Hey, chickens are a pretty freaky concept, not to mention being absurdly huge right now, and there are only so many hours in a day.
     Welcome, George T. Good, to Decimal Place Farm.

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