Her Side Funnies

As a special request, I am confessing to what amounts to a crime – destruction of property – at least according to Ken.

It started with the acquisition of, as Heidi put it, “an excellent, champion buck goat with a pedigree to die for.” She begged and pleaded. She pried and twisted. She swore that the only thing between her and goat fame was this one lonely buck goat. The answer to her prayers. She ultimately tormented her dad and I to allow her to buy “Pete.” (more…)

Sixteen-year-old Ben just came home from a 4-H leadership conference in Fort Collins. He had looked forward to it since last year when he met a bunch of friends and found that there is, indeed, life beyond Hotchkiss. Even “girl” life. That was particularly exciting to him. So, when this years sign-up list was making the rounds, Ben’s name was first to hit the roster.

The event lasted three days, and for some young pups, it was the first time away from home. They frolic, drink Mountain Dew, Red Bull and other caffeine-based drinks, listen to inspiring lecturers and then drive the chaperones crazy until the wee hours. Usually, with a little therapy, the chaperones bounce back to normal within a week. Some remain abnormal the rest of their lives. (You know who you are…)

As is our tradition, all heck broke loose on our end as Ben left. Dad broke his hip; a goat got her leg broke by a dog; another goat got sick and Dad’s cows got a case of the “Happy Feet,” and were running loose apparently heading for a field trip in Montana.

The photo, at right, shows one of Dad’s cows deep in thought about navigating the most direct route to Montana.  Once the plotting is complete, the cows feet levitate and the rest is a blur of hooves, wringing tails and cow glee. 

Waiting to pick up Ben from his trip, I got a phone call from the vet saying he had a shot for the sick goat and that we could stop by to pick it up on our way home. Time did not allow me to alert Ben to the change in the usual drive home, so he launched into a full detailed account of the most exciting parts of his trip. That included one story after another involving girls. (more…)

Coyotes are notoriously unpredictable farm funeral directors. They rarely take the right bodies, preferring registered young stock over those about to die.

A few years ago, I was kidding a friend who was complaining about his wife. I told him that if he and his

wife did not work out, that Grace-the-goat would have fallen for him with no concern for pre-nuptial agreements, unless they tasted good. Another goat, Matilda, would have fallen for him too, but instead she fell over dead.  I would have noticed something was up if she didn’t always act that way.  She was the one that I thought was brain damaged from late horn removal by a previous owner. 

My main criteria for determining a brain-damaged goat was that whenever the whole herd went right, this one stupid goat went left. When they all easily came in for grain, she stood outside in the rain. When all the other goats were eager to be milked, this one made an event out of it. Anyway, we did not expect to lose her and it was a shock to my daughter, Heidi, and probably to Matilda, too!
It also brought up that our resident farm funeral director, Dad, was unable to complete the normal dad-duties of disposing of dead livestock with the tractor claiming “I had a massive stroke. I cannot do it.” We all know this is a lame excuse, but since he can get half of his face to droop, when none of the rest of us can do that – despite valiant attempts – he succeeded in avoiding the duty. Now, looking back, I think he would reconsider and the rest of us would have tried harder to mimic a stroke. (more…)

This goat contemplates the last ride in Ken's car...(gurgle, gurgle).

Ah, today is a sad, sad day. I hauled the last four goats to the sale.

Yes, you did not mis-read this post. We are…(gulp)…goatless. The ensuing rodeo was more rich, somehow more mournful. The dog ceremoniously nipped at the heels of the wayward youngsters as we approached…(gulp)…Ken’s car.

This post, as irony would have it, is one day after the one which I confessed to damaging Ken’s truck – which I was grounded from using for a lengthy period of time – for having hauled one goat in it. Not wanting to risk getting grounded from driving the truck again, I did the only thing reasonable. I took his…(excuse me while I wipe a tear)…SUV. It has a plastic cargo tray, so I figured I was safe…relatively speaking.

The goats, sensing this was their last trip in one of Ken’s cars quickly emptied their contents all over the back of that car, but not before Mom had climbed inside and we were traveling too fast for her to leap from the vehicle. Now that she’s over 70, anything over 40mph and she stays inside. Go figure.
Did I mention that Mom wears perfume? Today she did not wear nearly enough. Ralph Lauren, with his expensive perfume labs, could not “Escape” (*Escape is, coincidentally, the name of her perfume) the powerful scent of four goats in a Honda Pilot.

Ben casually plugged his nose, hooked up the DVD player and became absorbed in the latest show, oblivious to the wretched smell engulfing the car. The only sign he made of discomfort was asking how long the 30-minute trip (which he has taken a thouand times) would take. Thanks to “our tax dollars at work,” we had ample road construction which made the 30-minute trip seem like a month-long sabbatical. Each time the little girl in the orange hat twisted her sign to read “Stop,” the goats expelled more refuse until we all thought surely we would slide out of the car, and onto the pavement below, in one gigantic pile of green stinky slop.

That’s when I became concerned about the interior of Ken’s car. I had pacified myself that we were not, technically, carrying any buck goats. They REALLY smell, and Ken’s grounding me was justified in THAT case. In contrast, we just had young doelings. Nervous doelings. Man how nerves can affect the digestive tract! And in my defense, that was unpredictable, despite Ken’s protests to the contrary.
When we finally reached the sales yard, I was moaning about selling Heidi’s goats while she is gone to Los Angeles, Mom was reassuring me that getting rid of anything that smells that bad is both justified and necessary, and Ben was asking if he could ride on the hood of the car for the return trip home.
An Amish Mennonite woman approached looking disdainfully at the back of the car, and asked about the dairy goats. It comes to my attention that Mennonites are NEVER dirty. She probably carries goat diapers in her purse for such emergency excursions, and an extra gallon of organic deodorant, which she made herself from homegrown apricots and biscuit batter, but I digress.

The long and short of it is that we unloaded the last of the goats, washed Ken’s cargo liner and left all the windows down for the return trip home. I believe I am off the hook, scott free.

Now, the house, the pasture, the neighborhood and the town seem unnervingly quiet.

The million dollar questions remain:

Will Ken notice?

Will I be grounded…again?

Will Heidi notice?

Will I ever pass for a Mennonite?

Will we return to the sales yard in the spring…in Ken’s car…to bring home replacements?

Anyone willing to bet?

This goat was caught in the act - partying after having plotted his latest escape from a very expensive fence.

I’ve long suspected that goats have an unusual private life. This year, at fair, an unexpected visit unveiled what I have suspected all along: 1. Goats plot their escapes. 2. Then, they party. This discovery required a lengthy undercover stakeout, extraordinary photography skills, and more than one box of donuts. The exact number of boxes remains a mystery because the goats destroyed the evidence, eating donuts boxes and all. (I lie. I can defend a box of donuts like a Kung-fu master, but I am also fluent in denying I eat donuts. After all, I am dieting right now. Donuts? What donuts?) (more…)