Here’s the picture I’ve been promising, of Sami in her wheelchair. She gets around so well and has even learned how to back up when she doesn’t turn wide enough through their gate. Her upper body is noticably stronger now, too. When I went to put the chair on her this morning, she was already trying to get up by herself!
In other news, I seem to smell like goat all the time now. Is it bad that I’m finding the smell less and less offensive?
All primped, pampered, loaded up and ready to go to his new home. I couldn’t count the number of tears I cried, even if I tried.
This morning, while the girls and I were still sleeping, Jeremy went out to “do the deed” because the little baby goat is not getting any better. We don’t own any guns, not even for slaughtering purposes – so he had to either slit its throat or club it. He thought clubbing it would be less messy, but… he just couldn’t do it. Especially with the mama standing there watching, all hopeful, which she does every time we check on her. Talk about guilt. So he thought awhile. Then he helped the goat up, “wheelbarrow style” and wouldn’t you know – the little goat can get around that way. Nursed and everything. But neither of us can spend our days wheelbarrowing a little goat around, so Jeremy decided he’s going to build the goat a wheelchair. You know, like those dog ones.
When he came in and told me, I was overcome with such a feeling of love for him. Extra, new love. It seems like, every time I’ve got him all neatly compressed in his appointed pigeon hole, he surprises me. If you know me at all, you know I am a bleeding heart. And if you’re Jeremy, you’ve grown accustomed to doing all the icky “ranch things” MY way. Which is to say, with the utmost respect and love for living things. And for those of you who don’t know this – that is NOT the standard. That it was Jeremy, not me, who thought it would be a good idea to put a goat in a wheelchair? I can’t even explain how it makes me feel.
I googled “dog wheelchairs” – did you know they are really freaking expensive? I found this on e-bay, and it is made out of PVC PIPE and STRAPS, which, being plumbers, we’ve got a little bit of that stuff hanging around. Jeremy’s going to work on making a prototype this afternoon.
So. No, that little goat is never going to make us any money -never be sold, never going to breed. It’s going to just live out its days here, and we’re going to be perfectly happy about that.
I love my dog, Max. He chose me to be his ‘mom’ in July of 2001, when I was going to the pound daily for about 3 weeks, looking for our dog (Rosebud) who got lost on the 4th of July. He was the only dog there who didn’t bark or jump up at the cage door. He just sat there, with his sad little Saint Bernard eyes and would tilt his head at me, every time. After a few days of this (and of not finding Rosebud) I mentioned to the pound employee that I was surprised the dog was still there. His reply was that several people had shown an interest in him, but unfortunately no one had adopted him and he was scheduled to be put down. My heart was already broken about my own dog, and knowing that this other dog was going to be put down just broke it even more. So I begged, begged Jeremy to just come down and meet him. We spent about an hour in the yard at the pound, and we were both impressed with his demeanor. He wasn’t neutered yet and it was the weekend, so we had to wait until Monday afternoon to pick him up from the vet’s. I spent the entire time picking out a name for him – my sister suggested Travis, I had a list a mile long and I don’t even remember what was on it. Jeremy and I had recently watched The Gladiator and he wanted to go with the name Maximus. So it stuck. Upon picking him up, we learned he weighed 65 pounds. A month later, he weighed 80 pounds! So for awhile there I called him Maxi-moose. He healed my broken heart, although I still to this day cry when I think about Rosebud. Time went on and we ended up with two more dogs, Yellow Labs – Cage and Tank. Why we ended up with both of them is a bit of a story, but this is about Max so I’ll have to save it for later. The three of them went on a bit of a crazy animal-attacking spree when we moved to our ranch, and after a bunch of different things didn’t work, we found a home for Tank. He is very happy at his “new” home, and for a couple of years now, Max and Cage have been content to eat dog food. But. A couple of months ago Max found a baby pygmy goat sleeping in a food trough and he ate it. Horrible, I know. I was so disgusted. But it was in a food trough, after all, and hey, anyone can make an honest mistake. Now it’s spring, and we’re having baby goats it seems like every other day around here. So last week, Jeremy walked up on Max eating TWO baby goats. He couldn’t even be satisfied with ONE, he had to take BOTH of them. The were twins, and their mom’s first babies ever. She bawled for days, and I was so disgusted with Max. Again. We don’t let the dogs just roam around, they stay in a very decent sized back yard, but we let them out when we are outside. Today the girls were swinging on the swings (which I was originally going to post about – I’ll have to do that one later) and I let the dogs out. Cage was hanging around by the swing set and I told Alison, “We have to keep an eye on Max, because I’m afraid he’ll find a way into the goat pen again.” Not a minute later, I do another quick scan and there he is, dragging a goat out of the pen. I don’t even know how he’s getting IN there. But this time he picked a month-old goat and it wasn’t as easy to kill. I screamed at him the whole time as I ran over there, but he just didn’t even register that I was there until I was beating him over the head, trying to get him to let go of the goat. The poor thing, it was in shock and couldn’t stand up. I hate animal abusers and would never have thought myself capable, but I admit I kicked Max in his rear because he was still standing there, looking like he was about to grab the goat again. He ran off with his tail between his legs. Cage had been watching this from a distance and ran over to me, and I completely confused him by screaming at him, too. So then he ran off, but just to the road, where he sat watching me. I picked up the little tiny goat and cradled her in my arms. She was all wet and had a small amount of blood where Max had sunk his teeth into her back. Jeremy says she’s paralyzed and probably won’t make it. And no matter how much I have loved Max all these years, I can’t have him here anymore. It kills me and breaks my heart (again), but we’re going to find him a home. Because he really is a great dog, as long as there aren’t any goats around.
I was gone for most of this morning which is a total rarity. I had to go to Sam’s club because the dogs were completely out of biscuits, and the outside cats were having to eat the diet “senior” cat food for the indoor cats, and were complaining loudly about it. I got home and Jeremy was there, he’d been with one of our pygmy goats, Joy, who had been laboring when I left. He’d had to cut out her first kid because it had died and Joy was struggling for a long time to get it out. The second baby was there with it’s little face in the birth canal, licking Jeremy’s fingers when he poked around in there. But he just couldn’t get it out, it’s hooves were not in the dive position and Joy’s hips were too small for Jeremy to reach in and reposition it. I was able to get the hooves repositioned, but its head was just too big. Poor Joy was so uncomfortable and I had to keep putting my hand back in there to move things to try and get the baby out. I know exactly how it feels to have someone’s hand up your uterus, so I kept apologizing – but it had to be done. Finally, we decided we’d have to cut it out. It had died already anyway (too long with the amniotic sac broken), and Joy was in agony trying to deliver it. Afterward, Joy laid her head in my lap and I just petted her and talked to her quietly. It was obvious that she felt better just having it over with and I felt just awful for not having been able to help her more.
We decided that we’re going to sell our pygmy’s now, because lately it seems like more die than live. We introduced a new buck to the herd about a year and a half ago, and since then things have just been going all wrong. The rest will probably go to auction, but I’m going to find a home for Joy where there won’t be any chance of her being bred again. Her hips are so small, I could hardly even get my hand in there around the baby – and when she contracted, her hips squeezed the baby back in rather than pushing it out. Going through that with her, I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what a complicated labor was like back in the day. It makes me cringe just to think about it!
Anyone want a sweet little pygmy doe?