Got my goats..or "What's the big deal about goats?"

Ah... goats. The 'poor man's cow.' Some people love goats. I do not. I don't hate them like I hates them pigs... but I'm more of a 'goat liker' and not a goat lover. To be sure the only reasons I have diary goats are because:

1. I can't afford a cow (no pasture for them to graze)
2. of poison ivy.

These are mini-manchas

When we arrived at this new property it was late fall and we had no idea the entire place was invested with poison ivy. I got it about 67 times the first summer we were here. Honestly the evil weed was everywhere and I was one big scratchy mess. One day I literally threw down my garden tools, got in my truck, and drove up to meet a woman who advertised "mini manchas" on craigslist. I didn't know what a "mini mancha" was and at the time the only thing I knew about goats was that they eat poison ivy. This was good enough for me.  So I handed over all my foldin' money and drove home with two ridiculous looking, bleating goaties. The first thing they did was run over to the poison ivy and ate it. I loved them.

Then the shine kinda wore off.

Misters Good Dog

Yesterday I had another opportunity to brag on my extra good dogs. I went with my neighbor to take her goofy golden retriever to a vet for a second opinion before a mistake was made. Her goofy golden had a head injury that wasn't healing and the original vet didn't have a great solution. So we packed up the goofy golden in the family truckster and drove into The Big City.

Within a few minutes The Very Good Vet had the problem solved. Of course she did... I had no doubts.  Because, you see, a couple years ago she changed my life.

A few years ago I took Titan to see this Very Good Vet because he had worn down his canines from obsessively chewing on toys. Fortunately he did not need the expensive titanium "grill" that some police get after breaking their teeth. But, she told me that all dogs, especially MY dog, need a job. She gave me some resources, told me that since Ti was showing signs of boredom to challenge him with other training, and sent us on our way ("No more toys! Let him entertain himself - let him chew on a stick.").

Gettin' my goose

Here's some free advice, never get used poultry.

So we are clear – any modest success we've had with this whole farming thing is due to the Farm Master, Bourbon Red. He has patiently taught me about farming this entire way. Pretty much we just wait and see what he and his Lovely Wife do on their farm – then we do that too. And voila! It works!  And we are very grateful.

But.

There is the story of how he gave me the blue-eyed, long-necked, white feathered demon, Odysseus Henkiller, our Embden gander. To this day I'm not sure whether to curse Bourbon Red for that winged devil gander or to thank him. I love Odysseus. I hate Odysseus. I love to hate him. I hate to love him. Its a complicated relationship.

Here's what happened:  (click 'read more' for the rest of the story)

                                                        This gander is not your friend!

It's all about the D - O - G... hardworkin' farm dogs

I was never really a dog person until I moved to The Good Land. One look at how remote we were and instantly calculating that a 911 call was going to be a good 20 minutes away convinced me that just maybe some big ol’ dogs was just what I needed. It should be said that The Big Man has always had big dogs and he’s a pretty alpha guy so I didn’t have any qualms about getting ‘too much dog.’

We were also of the same mind on how to raise them. For a full overview of our training regiment just pick up a copy of The Monk’s of New Skete’s book on German Shepherd raising, How to Be Your Dog's Best Friend: The Classic Training Manual for Dog Owners (Revised & Updated Edition). We like dogs. Not accessories that you put little sweaters on or carry around in a purse. Dogs. Big, working, dogs.

I planned on getting two mostly black, female German Shepherds with unusual names like Zayne…but what I ended up with were two MALE German Shepherds who are all white and have the most common names ever. For heaven’s sakes…

The Insane Cat Posse

So I thought I'd do an introduction of the malcontents.. I mean, of all the furred and feathered folks that more or less peacefully abide here at the ol' homestead.
First up, The Insane Cat Posse

I'd like to make if very clear that I didn't start out being a crazy cat lady. I had two cats when I arrived in The Good Land. TWO older, well behaved cats  When we moved here my girls were almost 15 years old.  The Big Man had two younger boy cats. We figured they would fight it out and establish a peace. They did and everything was going along just fine. Total of four cats = doable and reasonable.

Aahhhh... but I hadn't expected the dumping factor. The country. Where people come from miles around to drop off their pets when they are tired of them or cant afford them anymore.

Keeping my ducks in a row down on the farm..er.. pond.

The Big Man always said that he wanted ducks. I hadn't really thought about it but this property had a pond so when we got here it seemed to be a good idea. I pictured a couple of lovely white fluffy ducks gracing our pond and eventually, maybe, our table. So when our pals, Bourbon Red and His Lovely Wife, offered some ducks I packed up the truck and headed to their farm.

When I arrived a couple of webfooted gargoyles waddled across their barnyard. I instantly recoiled at the horror of ...whatever they were. 

“That's them!” Bourbon Red happily shouted out as I got out of my truck.

The 'ducks' were black or black like, with ugly unfeathered heads with weird red bills. Well ok....I thought, but not what I was picturing.

But hey - what could go wrong, and free waterfowl is always a bargain, right? Right.

How did I get here?

I’ve been thinking lately about how I got here. Sometimes people ask how I did it and mostly I just shrug and say “I dunno. It all kinda happened pretty fast.”

But here’s the long, ‘short-version’ of how it all happened. First, a bit of background. I used to have a big life.  Fat, cushy job in an industry some folks would die to work in, money – oh yeah, lots of money. I had a NICE house in town, the works. But I was in a “bad situation” and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had to get out.

My life was unsatisfying and I’d sit in my office and stare at my vacation pictures and wish I were anywhere but sitting right there. I dreaded going to work every day and I spent my big money making myself feel better because I worked so much. So I worked more so I could buy more things to make myself feel better. It was a vicious cycle. And it wasn’t doing me any good at all.

And so it starts....

It came upon me like a whisper I just barely heard... "go thee forth and dwell in The Good Land".. and then it was gone. Or maybe it was Toby Keith singing "I'm a hay seed and a plow boy, a farm kid and a cowboy..." I'm not sure but either way, instantly I was transported out of my urban dwelling into rolling fields of hay and corn stretching as far as the eye can see. I could smell the good earth, feel the sun on my face, see the richness of the land. Suddenly the vision shimmered and shook and was gone. I returned to my Big Life.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that I should not be there in the city and I needed to go into the country.

Eventually I heeded the message and took up my tents and made my exodus from the land of Moab and went forth into The Good Land.

Gone were the annoying neighbors, the traffic, my cushy extremely good paying job, the vacations others only dreamed about, and much to my dismay the luxury-grocery-store-just-two-blocks-away-but-that-was-still-too-far-to-walk.....

Here in The Good Land I made my place beside the still waters. I became a tiller of the soil, a keeper of the flocks, and a hater of pigs.

Here is what I learned:

1. Hard work is hard. Cold is really, seriously cold. And you just might fall over in the heat.
2. No one cares what your profit margins used to be if you can't schlep that 50 pound feed bag out into your truck yourself.
3. You can't get good Thai food in an Amish town.

and most importantly... That my life will never be better than it is right now.

Welcome to my blog. I have to keep track of all this ridiculousness somehow and so here it its.